


A Beast For Every Burden

by AntiGravitas



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, Original Percival Graves Needs a Hug, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-03-04 22:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 73,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13373985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiGravitas/pseuds/AntiGravitas
Summary: Percival Graves suffered terribly at the hands of Grindelwald, but quite how much has not been widely revealed. Newly summoned to New York by a mysterious letter, Newt Scamander inadvertently finds himself drawn into a mission to help restore the man’s tattered memories, and salvage what is left of his hope.Or, Newt has a beast for every burden of the soul.





	1. Salamander, Restorative Properties

**Author's Note:**

> Five chapters, five beasts. Hope you enjoy. :]

_”…and so I turn to you, Mr. Scamander, in the hope that your recently proven expertise in the subject of magizoology might lend itself to the completion of my quest. I must help my friend, for all that he has done for me over the years, and all that he means to me. The desire to help him now, when he has such need of my support, consumes me._

_With utmost sincerity,_

_Ibrahim Ismail.”_

 

Newt Scamander folds the letter back into its creased envelope and, with a sigh, slips it back into his jacket pocket. A low rise and fall of conversation hums around him, and he tries not to look too closely at the people on the surrounding tables for fear of drawing someone’s attention. He’s starting to regret coming here, chasing after this Mr. Ismail, but there’d been something about the letter, passed along to him indirectly by way of several other people, which had rung true.

This Ibrahim Ismail, searching for a cure for his friend’s memory loss, hadn’t, after all, come directly to him – not at first. He’d started out with several of Newt’s known and trusted contacts whose skills lie more along the potions and healing branches of magic than Newt’s own, and it’s only by their recommendation that he even wrote to Newt at all. So no, Newt’s sure this isn’t a scam, but on the other hand, he’s not entirely certain how he’s going to be able to help.  

Swilling what remains of his drink around the bottom of his glass in a gesture that speaks entirely of nervous energy, Newt casts a surreptitious look around the speakeasy. This is not the Blind Pig. It’s another clandestine drinking spot, somewhat smaller in scale than the previous one Newt had visited, but no less illegal for it, particularly as he’s not even sure this one isn’t just a straight up muggle venue. Certainly they’re not selling anything Newt would expect to see on a wizarding establishment’s menu, and all the papers he’s caught sight of so far are entirely static in their print. It’s starting to make Newt a little bit nervous.

Newt is two minutes away from deciding to take his case and leave, when the stranger approaches his table. A tall, handsome man of Arab descent, it’s the glitter of good humour in his eyes that catches and holds Newt’s attention.

“Mr. Scamander…?” the man asks with raised eyebrows. His tone is warm, friendly, and he’s dressed in a smart, dark suit. As Newt rises to his feet with a nodded affirmation, the man reaches out to shake his hand. “Ibrahim Ismail, a pleasure. And I must thank you for agreeing to meet at such short notice.”

They settle themselves at the table, and as they do, Newt takes stock of the other man. Well-built and well dressed in a suit that he suspects is the height of fashion over here, the man carries himself with a quiet confidence that Newt simply hadn’t expected. From his bearing alone, the man clearly enjoys life in a position of some kind of influence, but at this stage Newt couldn’t say precisely what.

“I trust your trip here was uneventful?”

Newt nods, and shifts his case slightly further back under his chair with the heel of one foot. The man’s accent is quite clearly English, and that throws him somewhat. Not what he’d been expecting at all. “Yes, absolutely. Perfect conditions, thank you.”

They regard each other for a moment then, until Ibrahim places his palms flat on the tabletop and draws in a deep breath. “May I come to the point immediately, Mr. Scamander?”

“Please,” Newt nods, both curious and a little relieved. He watches with interest as the man flicks his fingers in an elegant gesture, and the distinctive fuzz of a privacy charm settles around them. Newt does his best to school his features into disinterest at the casual display of magical ability, but can’t help but feel he may not quite have managed to keep his eyebrows from rising in time.

“As I made clear in my letter, I am in search of a healer, someone who can deal with a most delicate issue with the utmost discretion.”

"Your friend, with the memory issues,” Newt confirms.

“Quite so,” Ismail hesitates briefly, the slightest pause as though to gather his thoughts, before he continues. “I began my search when the healers gave up. They told us that there was no hope to restore the memories he had lost, but I _cannot_ accept that. At my insistence they searched their books and their histories, but to no avail. It was only when I came across a report of what you had achieved here in New York all those months back, with the venom of the Swooping Evil, that I wondered if, perhaps, I had found my saviour. I thought to myself, Ibrahim, if ever there is a man who can turn his knowledge to the solving of this problem, then here he is! And so, I freely admit, and, as I’m sure your colleagues relayed to you, I hounded them unmercifully until they passed my letters along to you.”

If nothing else, Newt thinks, the man has a way with words. Newt has a great respect for people who can speak so easily, so fluently, and at such length, but he’s also no fool. It’s not that he thinks the man is trying to trick him outright, but there’s definitely something being held back here. Newt’s escapades were kept reasonably under wraps after the events of last year, and the details of his unorthodox solution are most certainly not common knowledge. This man’s awareness of the Swooping Evil’s venom has been offered so freely that Newt wonders exactly who it is he’s dealing with here.

“You must forgive me, Mr. Ismail,” he begins, “But I’m not at liberty to discuss-”

And that’s as far as he gets before the room explodes with movement and noise.

“Aurors!”

“Everyone down on the floor! Wands down!”

“MACUSA!”

Newt leans back in his chair, teeth clenched around a hiss of dismay. This is a familiar but unwelcome turn of events, and absolutely the last thing he wanted to have happen this afternoon. He grips his case tightly between his calves, and keeps his hands up on the table where hopefully no-one’s going to get the wrong idea about what he’s doing. His heart is racing, fast enough to make him shake with adrenaline, as smartly dressed Aurors snap into existence all around them. Across the table from him, Ibrahim Ismail has turned in his seat to watch the commotion, a frown on his handsome features. He doesn’t look quite as worried as Newt thinks he should, but then Newt and Aurors have quite a complex history, not all of it good.

The rest of the speakeasy’s patrons are in various states of confusion, some already obediently climbing out of their seats to kneel, others standing and clearly starting to panic. The speakeasy is too small to allow people to freely flee, and the bar staff are already holding their hands up in surrender as six Aurors begin to move through the tables to take control. They seem to be heading primarily towards the back of the room in the opposite direction to where Newt and Ismail are sitting, somewhat to Newt’s relief.

His relief is short-lived however, when, with a snap of displaced air, one last Auror apparates into existence not far from their table. He cuts a stylish, impressive figure in his long, dark coat and tailored suit, and for an awful second Newt feels his stomach drop as recognition flickers through him. The man strides between the tables, gaze casting over the gathered patrons before it comes to rest on Newt’s companion. He visibly double-takes, and then alters his path abruptly until he’s next to their table. His attention, much to Newt’s relief, is fixed entirely on Ismail, whose only reaction seems to be an expression of mild embarrassment.

“Director,” Ismail says, giving the frowning Auror a crooked and overly innocent smile.

Newt has never met the real Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security and Head of MACUSA’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement before, but he’s entirely unsurprised to find the man as effortlessly powerful and thoroughly intimidating as the dark wizard who once impersonated him. As Graves flicks his gaze over to regard Newt, he alters that impression somewhat to accommodate the difference he sees in the man’s eyes. The darkness he finds there has nothing to do with cruelty and everything to do with a soul that has seen and suffered entirely too much. Newt finds himself unexpectedly shaken by it.

“Mr. Scamander…?” The Director’s voice is as low and soft as it ever was, but coloured by surprise.

“Uhm, yes. Yes, that’s uhm, that’s me. Mr-... Mister Graves.”

There’s a pause, in which Newt drops his eyes to the table, finding it impossible to hold this man’s gaze, and feeling a fool for it. He can feel the weight of his attention like an iron bar across his neck, and it’s deeply uncomfortable. He’s rescued by Ibrahim Ismail, who sighs, and says, “Director, I wasn’t expecting-”

“That’s quite enough now, Ismail. I’ll see you both back at headquarters. Mr. Scamander, I apologise for any inconvenience this has caused you, but if you could accompany Ismail here to MACUSA I’ll see to processing you personally, and you can be on your way by this evening. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

And that is how, for the second time in less than a year, Newton Scamander finds himself stuck in New York, somewhat under arrest in the most dubious of circumstances, although this time by the real Percival Graves. All told, he’s not entirely sure that this is an improvement.

 

*

 

Graves keeps his office slightly cooler than Newt would expect, and the cold makes the place seem sterile and unwelcoming despite the gleam of gold and bronze all around. On every side is glass and metal, all four walls full of display cabinets for arcane devices he barely recognises, and in every surface he can see his reflection - chin lowered, awkwardly tall, case clutched tight before him.

Ibrahim had apparated them both to the outside of the Woolworth building, and then led them through to the Auror’s level with an ease of familiarity that made Newt wonder again exactly who is he. He’d tried to ask, but Ibrahim had held up a hand in apology, and simply replied “All in good time, my friend.” And now Newt is here, having been left to his own devices in the private office of the Director of Magical Security. He’s not sure if he should sit down, or if that would be presumptuous, but it’s been ten minutes now by his judging, and how long exactly does it take to do a bust on a speakeasy? He could leave - he _could_ leave, couldn’t he? No-one’s actually arrested him after all. Eventually discarding the idea as only likely to get him in even more trouble, Newt finally settles for ensconcing himself in the chair in the corner of the room. There’s a small stack of books on the little round table next to it, and he decides to flip idley through these as he waits.

Graves finally arrives an hour later when Newt has gone through several cycles of picking up and almost immediately putting the books back down as his nerves steal any ability he might have to concentrate. The Director glances around briefly in search of him, and then pauses as he catches sight of Newt in the corner, hastily rising to his feet.

“Mr. Scamander, I apologise for keeping you waiting.”

“No, no, not a problem, really.”

Graves looks him over from beneath lowered brows, and Newt is struck suddenly by the impression that he’s somewhat out of sorts to find Newt in here alone. He hopes the Auror doesn’t think he’d be so rude as to go riffling through his desk drawers or anything similar. At Graves’ gesture he takes a seat in front of the large desk, case carefully out of sight at his feet. Graves settles on the other side of the desk, and, for a moment, fusses with the folder he has in his hands, straightening the papers and flattening their slightly curled edges. For a second Newt is horrified to realise that he’s been here before, has seen this exact performance by Graves, albeit in a much more severe location several floors below this one. His breath catches in his throat, and a shiver of horror runs through him. He knows, he knows _absolutely_ that he has done nothing wrong, and yet- Graves must catch his discomfort, for he looks up suddenly, and with a frown closes the folder and pushes it to one side.

“Mr. Scamander, I find I must apologise again for keeping you waiting. You are in no trouble at all, this is merely a formality to ensure that you can continue on your way without further delay.” Graves hesitates as Newt manages to glance up at him, and for a second Newt catches the uncertainty in the other man’s expression. Graves is watching him closely, and Newt doesn’t think he’s reading his mind, or even trying to, but then with these very powerful wizards you can never be sure exactly what it is they feel entitled to do.

“It’s no problem,” he manages weakly, surprised and a little embarrassed at the strength of his reaction. This man is not Grindelwald, he’s a highly decorated Auror, a professional whose life is dedicated to the protection of magical folk such as himself. Still, Newt finds himself unable to fully shake the memories of being sat across from someone who wore this man’s frame with such deceptive ease, from that gently predatory voice to the chill of the interrogation cell which had crept into every muscle of his body.

“I realise that I haven’t properly introduced myself,” Graves says slowly. “I am Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security for MACUSA. I understand that you played a significant role in the events of last year, so this is hardly news to you.” Again, he pauses, and Newt can feel the horrible weight of his attention in the otherwise silent room. “Mr. Scamander, if you’d prefer, I can have someone sit in with us while I fill this out.”

Newt does look up at him then, a little taken aback by the gentleness of the other man’s voice. There’s something knowing and almost embarrassed beneath his words, and strangely it’s this that sets Newt at ease more than any logic or protestations of innocence might have done. Newt shakes his head slowly, “No, I, I think I’m fine, thank you.”

Graves nods, then draws in a deep breath. “All right, thank you. If you change your mind, at any point, you have simply to say.”

Newt watches as Graves picks up his quill and opens the folder, filling out a few of the spaces before he looks up again. “This is merely a record of your presence at the raid, of anything that you saw, and a confirmation that you are subsequently safe and in good health. Do you have any objections to my taking these details?”

It takes Newt a second to formulate an answer, so taken aback by all this that he is. “I um, am I under arrest, Mr. Graves?”

Graves blinks, and then shakes his head slowly. “No, Mr. Scamander, not at all. You are quite free to leave at any time.”

Oh. Newt hadn’t realised that. If he had he might have already seen himself to the door and out of the Woolworth building long before Graves had even had the chance to show up. Something of this must show on his face, for Graves seems to pause, making as though to speak before apparently thinking better of it. “Perhaps you would care for some tea…?” he asks instead.

Newt simply stares at him, and cannot shake the feeling that this man is struggling against the tide to keep this whole situation from becoming even more unbearably awkward. Suddenly it occurs to him that Graves is just as uncomfortable about all this as he is. Somehow, that makes it easier. “No, I think if we could just get through it, that would be fine,” Newt says softly.

Graves nods, and then looks down at his papers. “Well then, if perhaps I could confirm a few details first…”

The questions are mostly confirmations of the information MACUSA already holds on him, and Newt has very little to do in response save to nod along. He confirms to the best of his abilities the people he saw in the speakeasy, and anything he thought might have been out of the ordinary. Graves takes neat notes in a small script that Newt can’t quite read upside-down, and Newt is almost starting to relax when the Auror sets his quill down, folds his hands atop one another and asks, “So, what brings you to New York this time, Mr. Scamander?”

“I can assure you that it’s nothing to do with magical creatures,” Newt says, the words out of his mouth before he can even fully process that he’s saying them. And as soon as they’ve been uttered he regrets it. Graves’ head tilts in curiosity, and Newt feels himself starting to panic. He’s not here doing anything illegal, he’s here on personal business, answering a private letter, and he can already see from the Auror’s penetrating stare that “personal business” isn’t going to cut it. Merlin’s beard, he may as well just be honest. If it means getting out of here more quickly then he’s all for it. “I was answering a letter. I came to offer private advice on a personal issue.”

Graves waits, and Newt fights to hold his tongue. He can feel the Auror using the same technique every Auror seems to know: the silent wait until the other person caves. “Personal issues are private, Mr. Graves,” Newt adds quietly. “I would not feel comfortable discussing them openly without prior permission.”

Graves is still staring at him, and his eyes have narrowed now. Newt can feel the first stirrings of suspicion in the other man, in the sudden stillness with which he holds himself, and the hardening of his gaze. Perhaps he’d misread Graves earlier, perhaps the man isn’t as embarrassed by all this as he made out. “Personal issues for...Mr. Ismail?” Graves asks, tone deceptively light.

“Yes, that’s right,” Newt replies, thinking that surely nothing can be made of that.

“And you’ve met Mr. Ismail before?”

“No, no, I haven’t.”

“But he contacted you…?”  
  
“Yes.”

“When was that precisely?”

Graves is keeping his tone light, as though none of this matters to him really, but Newt can hear the undercurrent of something harder below. Newt is, after all, very used to reading the subtle signals of dangerous creatures, and the man sitting opposite him is giving off the very early warning signs of an imminent tantrum. Well, perhaps not a tantrum, but certainly a change of mood that Newt may indeed not want to be present for.

“Around a month ago,” he replies.

“Hm,” is all Graves says at first. Newt can see him writing something, but is still unable to decipher exactly what from his side of the desk. Graves looks up and catches him trying to tilt his head to read, making Newt sit back suddenly. There’s anger in the Auror’s eyes now, though he’s hiding it well. Newt gets the sinking feeling that he’s said or done something to offend the man. “And how long will you be staying in New York, Mr. Scamander?”

Newt stumbles over his reply, set entirely on edge by the dark turn of the Director’s mood, and has to correct himself before Graves can note down his reply. “A month, perhaps,” he says. “Yes, I have an open return ticket. Very...very useful things when you don’t know precisely how long you’re going to...take...somewhere.”

Graves is staring at him, lips thinned, and Newt imagines the man’s anger like a pressure on the air, making him feel trapped. He has entirely no idea what he’s said to elicit this response, but clearly the Auror is somehow furious with him. This is not an uncommon experience for Newt, though normally he can at least hazard a guess as to what he’s said to cause it. This time however… Maybe it’s just bad memories? Perhaps Graves has decided that he’s an unwelcome reminder of the events of last year, and was upset to discover Newt isn’t intending to immediately leave New York and head home. Well, Newt wouldn’t mind doing just that, except-

“I have to check in with my North American distributors while I’m here, for my book you know. I wrote it. Finished it a few months back in fact.”

He can feel Graves staring at him, and can just about hear the man’s breathing in the absolute stillness of his office. He sounds on edge. “I see, yes. Your book.”

There’s the sound of the quill scratching again, and Newt waits, staring down at the corner of his case, hoping desperately that this isn’t going to transform into another fight about what he has with him. He really does have his permits all in order this time - Theseus had been very, _very_ strict about that, and, Newt has to admit, actually rather helpful for once.

“Well then, Mr. Scamander. I must thank you for your time today, and once again apologise for any inconvenience you may have experienced as a result of our operations. However, that will be all. I wish you a pleasant stay and a safe onward journey when you do depart.”

Newt looks up in surprise, so astonished that he actually meets the Director’s eyes. “That’s it?” he blurts. “I mean, not that- well, you don’t need anything else from me?”

Graves raises his eyebrows and makes an open gesture with the thumbs of his hands. “Unless there’s something else you need to relay to me?”

Newt hesitates, wondering if this is some kind of trap. It all seems just a little too simple, a tiny bit too easy. “You don’t need to see my permits…?” he asks carefully.

“Do you want to show me your permits?” Graves asks. “I have a full report here from customs containing copies from your recent arrival. You did declare everything in its entirety I assume…?”

Nodding quickly, Newt hurries to agree. “Yes, yes of course. I went through magical customs quite deliberately this time. I, well, I must have missed them last time. It was, I mean I’d never been here before and, well.”

“Indeed,” Graves says politely, and Newt realises that he really is being dismissed.

Cautiously, Newt rises to his feet, and after a second’s deliberation, offers a hand to the Auror. Graves rises and shakes it, and Newt allows himself to be shown to the door.

“You know your way out, Mr. Scamander?” Graves asks. “Straight across the floor to the elevators, tell the attendant you want the exit.”

“Yes, thank you. I can manage from here.”

“Wonderful. Good evening, Mr. Scamander.”

“Yes, good evening, Mr. Graves. Very good to, ah, meet you.”

The short corridor is empty, but Newt knows the way from here. He heads towards the main bullpen area where he knows the elevators to be, and behind him hears the soft click of the Director’s door slipping closed. It’s unpleasantly like leaving the lair of a dangerous beast behind, although safe escape in both situations is, he thinks, to be celebrated. Holding his case tightly, and trying his utmost not to run, Newt heads with confused relief towards the exit and freedom.

 

*

 

“ _Ibrahim_.”

Ibrahim Ismail knows that when Percival Graves says his name like that he’s most assuredly in trouble.

“You have _one_ opportunity to tell me what the fuck you’re playing at.”

Graves knows exactly what to do to get his Aurors’ attention and keep it, and how to do it in a way that even a man like Ismail knows not to mess with him. He watches the thoughts go through his second’s mind and to his frustration sees that even now the man is considering flippancy as a response. _Don’t_ , Graves thinks. _Do not test me tonight, Ibrahim._ Even though he doesn’t utter the words out loud, the other man clearly gets the gist of them, for he dips his head, and, with an apologetic smile, sits down in one of the visitors’ chairs before Graves’ desk.

"Percy...you have to understand, I was just trying to help.”

Graves watches him spread his hands, palms out in a soothing gesture, and keeps his face a mask of unimpressed and barely restrained anger. It’s not difficult. Ismail’s idea of “helping” has led to him bringing a stranger into his confidence, a man that’s closely linked to another country’s intelligence service - via blood relations no less! - and telling him Merlin knows what about-, Graves can barely even finish the sentence inside his own mind.

“What does he know, Ibrahim?” he growls.

Ismail shakes his head, waving his hands in a calming motion. “Barely anything at all, Percival. Barely even an outline of things. You know I wouldn’t be so indiscreet as to say anything that might remotely harm or embarrass you! Please, my friend, have some faith in me.”

Graves takes a moment to breathe a long, steadying breath in through his nose, teeth still clenched tightly in anger. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his Auror, simply that other people’s ideas of discretion so very rarely match his own. Still, he’s been friends with Ibrahim for fifteen years now, and something about that friendship must have kept them working together for this long. Even so, the rage in him is boiling hard tonight, and he can feel his knuckles are cold and white where he’s gripping the armrests of his chair.

“What did you _tell_ him?” he grates out.

Ismail draws in a deep breath and straightens, suddenly serious. “I told him I had a friend that had suffered a mishap during a magical study, and that some of his memories had been affected by the magical discharge from an experiment. I asked him if, owing to his discovery about the properties of the Swooping Evil venom, he had ever encountered any other creatures whose venom or derivatives might be of use in reversing memory damage.”

The sudden honesty gives Graves pause, and he examines the other Auror’s expression for any indication that he might be concealing the truth. This...isn’t so bad. Particularly if that was the entirety of their exchange. “That’s all?” he probes.

Ismail nods at once. “That’s all. Everything he knows. I promise you, my friend.”

Percival stares at him for what must be a long, uncomfortable minute for the other man. Ibrahim for his part holds his nerve and Percival’s gaze alike, testimony to his long experience of working under MACUSA’s Director of Magical Security. No matter that he knows Ismail has been doing his utmost to help him with the aftermath of last year’s debacle, no matter how deeply he knows he once trusted this man, once _knew_ him, in just ten months matters of personal trust that had once seemed immutable have undergone a seismic upheaval for Percival Graves. All damage from what that bastard Grindelwald did to him aside, still when Percival reaches for the inner calm that once came so naturally to him, it remains terrifyingly difficult to know if he’ll manage to grasp it. Paranoia, rage and bitterness have become an ever-present undertone to his every thought this last year, and he exists under constant threat of their intrusion.

“I don’t want you to do anything like this again, Ibrahim,” Graves says finally. That Ismail doesn’t smirk, or chuckle, or make any attempt to lighten the situation tells him that his message, and the sincerity of his anger with the other man, has penetrated the Auror’s usual facade of teasing good cheer.

“As you wish it,” Ismail replies somberly.

“Now get out,” Graves snaps, suddenly deeply tired of this whole fiasco.

With a polite nod of his head, Ibrahim rises and wordlessly sees himself out, chastened and unusually subdued. Graves glimpses the direction he takes just before the door closes behind him - off to the right and away from the bullpen - and thinks that he’s off to lick his wounds in solitude. Drawing in a deep breath, he closes his eyes and tries once more to centre himself. Two minutes later and he’s already shrugging back into his jacket, having given up on the attempt in favour of thwarting his anger by a different method. A short visit to check up on his Aurors’ reports regarding this afternoon’s raid may well give this restless energy of his something to focus on. It’s far too early to be handing them in, but never too early to be encouraged to get on with them as far as Graves is currently concerned.

A glance into one of the reflective surfaces of the glass cabinets satisfies him that his suit jacket is seated correctly, and then he’s out into the corridor and heading in the direction of the bullpen. Since Meyers had been put in charge of this raid he’ll start with him. Graves turns the corner to the open plan office, and is just moving to head through into the maze of desks when a detail out of place over by the elevator catches his eye. He comes to a halt, attention suddenly focussing in on the pair standing by the entrance to the lift, and something inside him comes dangerously close to boiling over. There is Abernathy, and there is Newt Scamander, quite clearly being detained by the recently promoted junior Auror. Graves doesn’t realise it, but he’s gritting his teeth in anger as he strides across the room towards them both.

“I really must insist I’m afraid, Mr. Scamander, that you surrender that case for examination immediately.”

It’s Newt that spots Graves coming first, and to his credit he does make a perfunctory attempt to warn Abernathy of his impending doom. An attempt that the junior Auror blithely disregards as he makes to usher Newt away from his escape route.

“ _Abernathy_ , what is going on here?”

Graves has noticed that there’s a curious jump in vocal pitch which seems to affect a subsection of his Auror team, particularly when he comes upon them unexpectedly. It’s an effect that has in the past both amused him and made him despair in almost equal amounts. Today though it serves only to push Graves higher up the crest of his rising surge of irritation.

“Mr. Graves, sir! I was just- this man, sir. This Mr. Scamander, he needs to be processed! His case, sir, he’s resisting-”

“He’s free to go, Abernathy,” Graves says, voice tight. “As per my direct instructions.”

As Abernathy gapes at him, Graves wonders if he’s ever going to be able to drag his department back into some semblance of an efficiently functioning team. After everything Grindelwald did to weaken the integrity of his Aurors - and so very successfully too - there are days that Graves near despairs of the holes the dark wizard tore in the competency of his department.

“Mr. Graves, I-”

Graves cuts the younger Auror off by stepping forward and raising his arm to guide Newt into the elevator. It’s not that he pushes Abernathy out of the way, he’d never be so crude as to do such a thing, more that the junior Auror leaps back in horror as he realises that he’s erred so publicly. Graves could, were he in a better mood, almost pity him. As it is he’s fully aware that in the time it’s taken for him to dismiss Newt, summon and dress down Ismail, and then get back out here, Abernathy has been detaining the man for no good reason.

“Mr. Graves, I do hope everything is quite all right? And Mr Scamander, what a surprise.”

Graves could almost curse aloud. Is there anything else that could possibly go wrong with this day? He sees Newt flinch and fold himself into that strange half-cowering stance he seems to enact whenever someone even mildly imposing turns their attention on him. Drawing in a breath, Graves turns to the newcomer, and nods politely.

“Madam President,” he says.

Seraphina Picquery has made her approach under the cover of Graves’ anger with Abernathy, and now stands with tilted head watching their exchange with all the cool interest of a predator. Behind her, and just out of her line of sight, his expression one of wincing sympathy, is Ismail. Clearly she’s picked him up en route from wherever it was he’d been attempting to hide himself. Graves deliberately ignores him and focuses on Picquery; the last thing he needs here is a scene with the President.

“Might I have a word?” she commands him, already turning away. “Mr. Scamander, if you could just give us a moment.”

Graves follows her off to the side, where the hum of conversation from the bullpen will cover their words. He leans in as she turns them both to face away from anyone who might be watching. “Why is he here?” she asks immediately, and there’s an edge of something that’s almost anger threading through her words.

“Personal business,” Graves replies, making use of the exact phrasing Newt himself had shied away from. She looks at him sharply, and he gives her the slightest lift of his eyebrows. “He’s hardly under arrest, Seraphina, and his permits are all in order. There’s a limit to what I can do to detain him without due cause.”

It’s a fine line that Percival Graves walks with the current President of MACUSA. On the one hand they’ve known each other and worked together for many years. On the other, the current political climate is fraught with tension, not least due to Percival’s deeply dented reputation and the subsequent knock-on effect this has had on anyone close to him over the last year. Percival Graves may have been absolved legally of any responsibility for his own kidnapping, but questions keep on being raised regarding how everyone else around him simply failed to notice the dark wizard that had replaced him. The truth of the matter is that where Percival Graves may have been shamed, his direct superior has been walking on the thinnest of ice over the last year, and simply cannot afford to have anything else go wrong on her watch.

“I don’t care,” she tells him bluntly. “I want you to personally oversee him for the duration of his stay, and you’ll start by going through every last one of his permits _individually_ , and checking each and every one of those beasts of his is present and accounted for.”

This is scrutiny of the highest order, but considering recent events and Scamander’s history, it’s not entirely undue. Graves stares at her, reading the unwavering resolve in her eyes, and knows that there’s no way around this. In fact, were he thinking straight, perhaps he should already have made this call. No, had he not been so taken by surprise by Ismail’s interference he absolutely _would_ have insisted on this already, he realises that now. He has, he thinks, been a complete fool, and it’s unbecoming of a man that calls himself the Director of MACUSA’s Magical Security. He lowers his gaze and nods, pinching the bridge of his nose between the fingertips of one hand. “You’re right, of course. I’ll do it now.”

She nods and flicks a glance back to where Newt is waiting awkwardly by the elevator, the bellboy goblin staring at him in open dislike. “And Percival,” she adds quietly. “Are you all right?”

He feels his lips thin at the question. As rare as it is for people in general to vocalise the query, the ones that do inevitably make every muscle in his body tense. Unfortunately, Seraphina, their long years of friendship aside, absolutely has the right to ask it of him. “Of course. Now, I ought to get on with this. I’ve seen how many permits Scamander’s been issued, and this is going to take some time.”

He gives Seraphina a polite nod and takes his leave. Newt looks up with a cautious optimism that immediately fades when he sees the look on Graves’ face. Although he doesn’t turn to confirm it, focussing instead on ushering Newt back towards his office, Graves can feel the President’s eyes on his back all the way.

 

*

 

Even carefully concealed behind a professional demeanor, Newt can tell that Percival Graves is embarrassed. He hides it well of course, and naturally he’s already apologised for the change in plans, but Newt can read the discomfort in his movements, particularly in the way his lips stretch into a thin, determined line. In all honesty Newt’s not sure what to make of it. Graves was clearly eager to be rid of him earlier, angry at something Newt had done, but then Madam Picquery had reacted to his presence with all the predictable suspicion people of import normally reserve for him. In that regard Newt’s not surprised the situation is suddenly back to complex.

How he wishes he’d checked in with Tina first before meeting up with Mr Ismail, then she would have known he wasn’t back when expected and might have come looking for him. For all the good that would do of course, he thinks, as he watches Graves stiffly descending the ladder into his hut. No, on second thoughts perhaps it’s turned out for the best. At least this way she’s not been dragged into anything that might hurt her career.

Graves turns awkwardly at the bottom of the ladder, already looking around with all the professional interest of a man who catalogues crime scenes for a career. Newt mostly manages to stop himself from wincing, but can’t quite manage to keep his anxiety from showing. Graves glances around then looks to him, clearly picking up the discomfort on Newt’s face. “Let’s get started, shall we?” he says, with a carefully neutral smile, one that doesn’t really reach his eyes.

Newt nods hurriedly, and, at Graves’ raised eyebrows, digs out his rather impressive collection of freshly stamped and updated permits. They _had_ been in alphabetical order until Newt had knocked them all onto the floor reaching for a crate on one of the high shelves. Ducking his chin he hands the whole wad of them over.

“May I?” Graves asks, nodding towards Newt’s desk.

“Oh! Yes! Please, let me just clear this-...”

Graves hangs back as Newt pushes books and papers, tools and potions paraphernalia to one side, making a space for him to work. He stands aside as Graves settles himself into the single chair, and then finds himself somewhat at a loss. Should he stand and wait while the Director works? Leave him to it? It’s not really advisable for people to go wandering around outside unsupervised, but of course Graves is sitting comfortably at the desk so won’t be doing that- Newt grimaces and gives himself a mental shake. This is unbearable.

“Would you...care for some tea?” he asks, then immediately regrets it. He should have simply put the kettle on. A normal person would have just gotten on with it.

“No, thank you,” Graves replies absently, already deep in paperwork.

Should definitely have just put the kettle on. Newt stares at the back of the man’s head and then, in a fit of decisiveness, decides to do it anyway. Even if Graves doesn’t want tea, Newt could do with a cup to keep himself calm and help pass the time. And honestly, who doesn’t offer tea in their own home? Even _he_ knows that.

The tea-making gives him several minutes grace before he turns around, cup in hand, to find Graves still working. To Newt’s horror, Graves is no longer alone. A pair of striking emerald eyes stare smugly back at him from below the Director’s elbow, and Newt all but gasps.

“Misty! I’m terribly sorry, Mr Graves. Get down! Now!”

Graves looks sideways at him, and makes a small, sour noise in his throat. “It’s quite all right, Mr Scamander. My sister had one of these, I’m accustomed to it.”

Newt doesn’t think Graves fully appreciates the amount of fur he’s going to find all over his expensive trousers once he gets up, else he wouldn’t be quite so calm about it. For her part, the shaggy silver tabby Kneazle, Misty, gives Newt a long, slow blink of her eyes, but otherwise completely ignores him.

“If you’re quite sure…” Newt says, having no idea how to extract the Kneazle without her digging her claws into their guest. He spends the next ten minutes sipping his tea and being out-stared by the creature, until Graves straightens up, taps all the permits into a pile and turns to him.

“Right then. If you’d be so good as to match these permits to their respective subjects we can get this over with.”

Newt, who has been alternating his disapproving glare at the Kneazle with watching Graves closely for any signs that he’s reacting badly to the contents of the permits, starts visibly. It’s so rare for him to bring anyone down here into his case, and invariably each time that he does he experiences some form of anxiety over their reaction to it. On the whole, people have tended towards being impressed. Newt knows that no-one ever really expects quite the amount of work he’s put into the extension charms down here, even when he tells them in advance, but then again, Newt very rarely has such powerful guests. The last powerful person he’d invited down here had been Albus Dumbledore, and the professor had been nothing short of flattering. Somehow Newt doesn’t think he’s going to get quite the same reaction from this man.

“Yes, of course. This way then please.”

To his mild surprise, Misty jumps down from Graves’ lap of her own accord, and Newt tries to surreptitiously check the Auror’s trousers to see how badly she’s shed on them. Graves gives him a querying and slightly bemused look that quickly has Newt turning away in embarrassment. Hastily he reaches for the door handle, and with a glance over his shoulder says, “Please stay close.”

Newt’s already at the bottom of the stairs by the time Graves emerges outside, and so he has chance to look back and catch the man’s initial reaction. Graves pauses at the threshold, clearly taken aback by the sheer scale of the scene opening up before him. For a fraction of a second, Newt can read open surprise on his face, although it’s quickly mastered and carefully concealed behind professional neutrality. It’s interesting, Newt thinks, the subtle differences between this Graves and the Graves that Grindelwald had portrayed. Both men are expressive, but where Grindelwald went perhaps a little overboard with his flair for the dramatic, the real Percival is far more collected, more world-weary and almost a little withdrawn. Newt’s not sure if that’s a result of his trials at the dark wizard’s hands or if he’s always been that way. Regardless, there’s something a lot more open and guileless about the emotions Percival Graves displays whenever that mask of professionalism gives way.

“I’ve, uh, I’ve moved a lot of my guests on since I was last in New York, as you can probably tell from the permits...but, ah, I think we’ll start with the small creatures first. This way please. And do stay close, everyone’s friendly, but this is their home and I’m sure you understand what it’s like…”

They start with the Jobberknolls and the breeding pair of Fwoopers Newt has most recently acquired. He watches Graves carefully, alert for any indication of disapproval, fear, or hostility towards his creatures, ready to intervene at a moment’s notice. As with any wizard that’s attended a wizarding school, Graves will have at least a basic education in magical creatures. However Newt has found, as is so often the case, despite this magical folk can be terribly ill-informed when it comes to the creatures that share the world with them.

The Graphorns are next, and Newt keeps a close eye on the Director’s response to them as they come charging across their habitat towards their visitors. The beasts are large and intimidating, despite their docile nature, particularly when four of them come pounding in at nearly full speed, the two calves having reached the first stages of their adult size now. Graves however stands resolute, and doesn’t seem inclined to panic, although Newt can read the increase in tension across the man’s shoulders. The Graphorns snort and toss their heads in amusement at this new person’s stoic defiance of them, and Newt pats their necks and allows himself to be caressed by their tentacles as Graves notes off their presence against the permits he holds.

His reaction to the Nundu is better than Newt expects. Graves stands at a distance, expression wary but collected, and says, “That’s smaller than I expected.”

Newt hums an acknowledgement, and shrugs. “Nasiib was the runt of his litter. He’s about a third smaller than the other males which is why he lives with me now. He can’t go back to the wild, they’d kill him. We get along all right, and he’s happy here.”

“And he’s kept contained by…?”

Newt knows it won’t benefit any of them to say that the Nundu stays in his habitat out of respect for Newt’s boundaries, despite it being the truth, and so he replies, “Disinclination charms around the edge of his habitat,” - which is the truth, Newt had been very careful, and apologetic, about setting those up prior to arriving in America - “And besides, he knows where the food comes from.”

“Hmm,” says Graves, but it doesn’t seem like a bad sound to Newt.

They visit the cave system and the night enclosures next where the Mooncalves, all fifteen of them, whip their heads round to stare with gimlet eyes at the newcomers. Graves seems slightly unnerved by them if Newt had to guess at his reaction, but he doesn't shy away when they push close en masse to investigate his pockets. Newt shoos them back and watches Graves sort their permits to the bottom of the pile.

He takes the single Occamy Newt has left in stride, blinks in mild amusement at the constant stream of filthy language directed at him as they pass the Jarvey’s lair, and pauses only briefly to raise his eyebrows at the Niffler, who crouches on his trinket pile, guarding his lair, and who gives Graves a baleful stare as they walk past. It directs a warning trill at the Kneazle, trailing along behind them, as they leave, which the magical feline deftly ignores.

By the time they circle back to the water habitat Newt has almost completely relaxed, satisfied that Graves appears unperturbed by his menagerie, and confidant that the Auror’s probing enquiries regarding the empty enclosures have been fully answered. He allowed the other man to wander around inside these without trailing him, from the remnants of Frank’s giant perch to the now empty Siberian winter habitat. That particular guest has long since been stored away somewhere safe back in Scotland. Graves seems to find nothing amiss, and fails to turn up any secret creatures Newt has stashed away, so they return to the water habitat for the difficult task of counting up the myriad fast-moving aquatic beings.

Newt is already up the set of rickety stairs that lead to the base of the great floating water cube, when he realises Graves is not with him. He turns and looks back to find the man very slowly ascending the staircase, a look of deep concentration on his face. It’s the kind of expression Newt recognises all too well, that of a beast hiding its pain. The sight of it makes him wonder, but Graves appears to notice his attention almost immediately, and Newt looks quickly away.

It takes them almost half an hour to go through all the miscellaneous aquatic creatures under Newt’s care, and by the time they’re back at the steps leading up to his shed Newt can see quite clearly that his guest is limping. He says nothing as Graves takes one last look around at the habitats, an expression that Newt can’t quite place hovering on his features. Newt’s certain that in the last few hours Graves has lost all of his embarrassment at the situation and apparently all of the anger at Newt too. He’s barely surprised by this. It’s been a rare person that he’s invited down into his case that has maintained their affront at its existence, for even magical folk come to recognise wonder all over again when properly introduced to magical beasts.

It’s not until Graves has climbed his way painfully up the steps and back into Newt’s shed, and seated himself with a visible wince back at Newt’s desk, that he finds himself building up the courage to say anything. Then, in true Newt fashion, as Graves puts his initials on each and every verified permit, he doesn't say anything at all, simply sorts through his collection of salves and ointments until he finds the one he wants. As Graves bangs the permits smartly on the table to straighten them, Newt holds out the balm.

“Here we are, Mr Scamander, these all appear to be in...what’s this?” Graves looks up at him curiously.

“A balm,” Newt says, immediately feeling like a fool. Clearly it’s a balm. “For your muscles. You, uhm, you’re limping and I-” _I assumed_ , he thinks wildly, as Graves’ expression closes down into something blank and cool. _I am such a fool_.

“I-...” says Graves, and then he stops. For a second Newt thinks he’s going to witness another sudden shift into anger, just as he had up in the Director’s office, and then Graves’ expression softens, and he shakes his head, as though snapping out of his mood. “Well, I, thank you, Mr Scamander. What exactly is it?”

“Oh! It’s a soothing balm, for aching muscles. It’s made from ground Salamander scales, and assorted other ingredients, but primarily the scales. Salamander blood is famous for its restorative properties, but I’ve found the scales create a very effective balm for use on strains and bruises. It’ll feel somewhat warm, but it’ll help take away any aches you have. I uhm, I had a pair of Salamanders for a while, but I don’t any more. But I’ve still got some of their scales, and you know, things happen and I thought it would be useful. To keep them. The scales, that is. I don’t have the Salamanders any more, although I think I said that….”

Graves is looking up at him with a strangely uncomfortable expression and Newt realises with a sudden shock of clarity that the man is terribly embarrassed to have been caught suffering. Or perhaps more accurately to have had that suffering pointed out to him. Newt could kick himself. Surely there could have been a better way to have handled that. What an idiot he is!

“I’m very sorry, Mr Graves. I didn’t mean to assume.”

“No, no...it’s quite...” Graves pushes himself to his feet, putting the permits down on Newt’s desk and reaching out to take the balm from his hand. He straightens his shoulders, and Newt can see him deliberately making the best of the situation. “Thank you for your concern, I appreciate your kindness.”

He smiles, but Newt doesn’t see it, his eyes downcast and cheeks burning with embarrassment of his own. He feels the balm being taken from his palm, and then Graves asks mildly, “Is there anything in particular I should be aware of with this?”

“Ah, no. Just use it as you will, a small amount should do on the affected area. There’s no side-effects, and no contraindications, so don’t worry about that. And that’s it really. It’ll feel warm when you apply it, but it’s supposed to be like that.”

There’s a moment’s silence, and Newt cannot bring himself to meet the Director’s gaze. He can sense the man turning the small jar in his fingers, and hear his breathing change as though he’s about to say something else. But he doesn’t. Instead, all he hears is, “Well then. Thank you again, Mr Scamander. I suggest we call it a day.”

Newt doesn’t watch as Graves ascends the ladder, politely keeping his eyes downcast and staring at the Kneazle who sits watching them both as the Auror climbs his way stiffly back out of the case. He gives it a moment, and then follows, back out into the gold and brass gleam of the Director’s office.

Graves returns to sit behind his desk as Newt busies himself snapping the case closed and locking it securely. He reapplies the secondary locking charms with a tap of his wand, aware the entire time of the Director’s attention on him, although entirely unable to summon the courage to look up and meet his gaze. After a few seconds he hears the man writing something and wonders if he’s simply gone back to work.

“Well then,” Newt says finally, standing somewhat awkwardly, case now in hand. “I’ll be off.”

Graves nods, drawing in a breath, and then leans across the desk to hand Newt a folded piece of paper. “Indeed. Here, put this under the nose of anyone that bothers you on the way out. They’ll understand the message.”

Newt takes the offered page, but doesn’t look at it. It feels like a form: thin, cheap paper made for multiple copies. “Thank you, Mr Graves.”

He turns at the exit, ready to pull the heavy door closed behind him, and one last glance up shows the Director watching him with an unreadable expression. “Stay out of trouble, Mr Scamander,” Graves says softly, and Newt swallows, nods, and pulls the door firmly closed behind him.

He fully intends to.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter won't be quite as long, that almost got out of hand, apologies! Please let me know what you think, I've never written in the Harry Potter universe so I do hope I've not messed too much up!


	2. Niffler, An Uncanny Sense For All Things Valuable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt thought he was in the clear. He is most certainly not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your kind encouragement on this fic, you're all wonderful! Your support has genuinely been uplifting in a rather trying week.

The last sack hits the pile with a thud, and Newt pulls his wand from his back pocket.

“Evanesco!”

The bags vanish, leaving behind only a lingering scent, and Newt stretches his back with a crack, worn out from the long day of travel, subsequent unwanted adventures with aurors, and the completion of the last of his daily tasks - mucking out the enclosures. He rubs the back of his hand across his eyes, and stifles a yawn. It must be nearly midnight by now.

By the time he’d left the Woolworth Building it had been far too late to find dinner out. Instead, he’d returned to his hotel room, secured the door and made his way down into his case to attend to the evening tasks. Dinner had been some crackers and a tin of beans he’d heated up on the camp stove in his shed. He really does need to see about restocking his supplies now he’s back on dry land. Although he has enough food to last the beasts for the next two months, he may perhaps have neglected to pack so well for himself.

He has a flask of cold tea sat on a nearby ledge, from which he takes a grimacing swig as he watches the four Graphorns dozing over in one corner of their habitat. They’d been very excited to see him return earlier, still stirred up by the visit the Director had paid. Newt thinks the four of them had been quite impressed to meet someone other than Newt who refused to back down in the face of a charge, be it a playful one or not. Seeing that he’d returned alone they’d quickly wandered off to entertain themselves and let him get on with his cleaning.

It is, after all, so rare for Newt to bring anyone down here. He wipes his mouth dry, and frowns in thought. Mr Graves had seemed a great deal more relaxed down here than he had back up in his office, and Newt wonders how much of that is due to a life led entirely in a city. City wizards seem to forget that there’s a world outside the limits of their brick and mortar citadels, Newt can attest to that from the dreary years he spent working chained to a desk at the Ministry. He knows how it gets. Still though…

Yes still, Graves had been very confusing today Newt decides, pouring out the dregs of the unpleasantly cold tea and stoppering up the flask again. He hopes the man is finding the Salamander balm useful, because he really had looked like he was covering up an awful lot of deep pain by the time they’d finished going through the permits. Newt’s seen that type of injury on a wizard before, from back when he served during the war. It’s generally caused by magical damage since it lingers so, and because Graves has both the money and status to acquire any magical healing he might need, it had to have been quite the curse that took him down. Newt winces; of course it had been quite the curse. He himself has felt the types of hex Grindelwald can fling, and he daren’t even imagine what he might have done given enough time to play. Merlin’s beard, the very thought of it sends chills down his spine.

Even so, Graves had been acting rather strangely before they’d made it down into Newt’s case. He’s still not sure exactly what it was he did to anger the man so much that he’d cut short their interview and more or less kicked Newt out of his office. Well, not quite _kicked_ out, Newt admits, but certainly _hurried_ out. He’d started to get annoyed from the moment Newt had said he was in town to answer a letter, and that brings Newt’s mind back to Ibrahim Ismail. Clearly, Graves and Ismail know one another, and from both his reaction to Graves and his subsequent continued presence around the aurors’ offices Newt surmises that the man is unfortunately himself also an auror.

Well, it’s not a _crime_ to be an auror. Theseus is an auror.

It’s just that Newt and aurors always somehow seem to see situations from precisely the opposite end of the spectrum. Particularly here in the States. Well, actually, that’s not quite fair, he reminds himself. Tina’s an auror, and although she can be a little stiff and formal at times, she’s perfectly lovely otherwise. And that thought makes Newt wince too, because he really ought to have checked in with the girls by now. They know he’s due in New York this week, but not exactly when, despite asking several times. Newt feels a little bit guilty about that actually, the whole not telling them everything. The Goldstein sisters are truly wonderful, and good friends of his, but, well, Newt remembers all too well what happened the last time he was here. He still has nightmares of Tina’s face, pale and frightened, surrounded by the rising darkness of the death potion, and those nights he wakes in a cold sweat.

No, Newt will go to the sisters in good time, tomorrow perhaps, for surely they’ve already heard about his escapades today. But until then he just wants to settle himself quietly and without feeling like he’s intruding on anyone.

Slinging his yard fork over one shoulder he sets off back through the habitats, looking into each one a last time. Maybe he’ll kip on the fold-out cot down here tonight. It should be fine - he hung the little “Do not disturb” sign on his hotel door before locking up earlier. A good long sleep in cozy surroundings will relax him, and he can forget all about the trials of today, then go about his business tomorrow with a fresh start.

Satisfied with this line of reasoning, Newt strolls wearily back towards his shed, ducking his head briefly in on the night enclosure as he passes, and playfully tapping the underside of one of the water globes as its occupant dips down to greet him. He can’t see the Jarvey, but that’s nothing new, he can certainly hear it cursing to itself from somewhere within its mound, which brings him to its neighbour.

The Niffler is sleeping peacefully in its hole, fat little belly pressed up against the gold coins Newt has given him - the little bugger has more money than Newt does these days - limbs splayed across its treasure. Feeling Newt’s attention on him, the creature’s beady little eyes flick open and it lifts its head to look at him. The curve of its bill makes it seem as though he’s smiling, and Newt finds the corner of his mouth lifting in return. Ah, for all the trouble this little sod has caused him over the years, he too is a rescue and there’s no way to put him back into the wild, no matter how much Newt might want to sometimes.

Well, there’s no way he can get out this time. Newt has replaced the physical locks on his case, completely recast the locking charms, and put up some disinclination spells that he powers up whenever he leaves the case for any length of time. He doesn’t really like charms like those, because he feels they’re not terribly respectful to the beasts, but considering what happened here the last time, well, they’ll all just have to make do. He is absolutely not going to have a repeat of last December, thank you very much.

The Niffler is still staring at him, holding his gaze in the way it does when it’s waiting on a treat. Or waiting for him to realise something. Newt frowns, and looks closer. You know, now he thinks about it, he really doesn’t recognise that pocket watch. _When did you get that…?_ Newt tilts his head, only just able to pick out the intricately engraved letters on the back of the case. He takes a step closer, and the Niffler tenses, just fractionally.

_“P. G. Happy 40th, Old Man ~ I.I.”_

_P.G._ Hm, Newt thinks. _P...G…_

Understanding dawns and sends a flood of ice through his veins. For a long few moments, Newt just stares, and the Niffler stares right back at him.

“I cannot-...I just-...I cannot believe you!” Newt says weakly, mystified at the universe’s sense of humour.

The Niffler makes a soft snuffling sound that could very well be a vocal shrug, and very slowly reaches out to wrap its claws around Percival Graves’ pocket watch.

“You-! You give that back _right now!_ ” Newt demands, pointing in outrage.

The Niffler, for its part, tilts its head, gives him a rude chitter of disinclination, and flees. Dropping his yard fork and his empty tea flask with a clatter, Newt dives after it.

It takes him an hour and half to retrieve the pocket watch, during which time the Graphorns are sent stampeding, the Mooncalves are scattered in every direction, Newt almost kicks a Diricawl chick clean across the yard in front of his shed, and all the while the Jarvey stands on the very top of his mound and screams invective at one and all.

By the time he has his hands on the pocket watch and checked it for damage - none, thank Merlin! - Newt’s about ready to let the Kneazle do what’s natural and eat the Niffler. Dumping the creature back on its hoard he gives it a glare, and then stuffs the pocket watch safe inside his jacket.

“And you stay there now! No treats for a week!”

Turning his back on the Niffler’s heartbroken little face, Newt stomps off to bed, closing the shed door behind him with perhaps a little too much force.

That night he sleeps up in the hotel bedroom after all, locking his case firmly behind him. Sleep is a very long time coming, and when he does finally drift off his dreams are full of angry aurors, Percival Graves confiscating his case, and Seraphina Picquery banning him permanently from the country.

 

*

 

"Newt!"

For a second Newt thinks Tina's going to hug him, then she hesitates, pulls back, and offers him her hand to shake instead. Biting back a smile, he wouldn't have minded a hug really, he takes her hand in his and squeezes it fondly. Now she's right here in front of him he realises just how much he's missed his American friends.

"Hello, Tina," he smiles.

The people at the front desk are doing their best to look busy, and not at all interested in the pair of them, but Newt can see the occasional sidelong look coming their way. So too can Tina, for she glances around then draws Newt over to one side and out of earshot. "So, I hear you got in yesterday lunchtime...?"

Under her stern look, Newt wilts, and gives a tentative laugh. "Yes, I, well. I had some business to attend to first, and then I wanted to surprise you, and well..."

"Oh, Newt..."

"I'm sorry, Tina."

They look at one another, Newt abashed and Tina with that same expression of despairing concern she so often seems to wear around him. "Well, I heard about the raid, and you getting caught up in it. You'll need to catch me up on that later. But why are you here? Front desk said you were asking for Mr Graves...?"

"Ah, right, yes. I need to talk to him. As soon as possible." Newt winces at the reaction this elicits, the immediate mix of dread and suspicion that crosses her face. "It's not bad! Well, I mean it's not good, but it's really nothing to worry yourself about. I just, I need to return something to him."

She's still looking at him with furrowed brow, concern on every feature, and Newt sighs. "The Niffler stole his pocket watch."

"Oh, Newt!"

"Look, look I know! But that's just the way he is, he can't help himself! And nothing's damaged, he's very particular about his treasure, I think he even polished it actually, so there's no concerns on that front. I just need to speak to Mr Graves and give it back to him, and then it's sorted and we can all go about our business."

Tina heaves a great sigh and shakes her head, and Newt finds himself hunching his shoulders a little defensively. Tina should understand what it's like, she's seen his creatures and had enough first-hand experience of them by now to know that there are simply exceptional circumstances to take into consideration when dealing with them.

"Oh, Newt," she says yet again, more softly this time. Before he can protest she adds, "Mr Graves isn't in today. You'll either need to come back tomorrow, or take it round to his house."

"What?" Newt exclaims, the very thought of going round and visiting the man striking fear into his heart. He'd much rather go tracking down an angry Nundu in its lair than a put-out Percival Graves. Tina shakes her head at his look of horror, and is about to reply when she pauses suddenly and digs in her pocket.

"Look, Newt, I- oh, just a second." She pulls out a small gold coin that's vibrating so much Newt can actually see it moving, and taps it once sharply with her thumb. "Newt, I need to go. Here, I'll write his address down for you. I really think you need to get that pocket watch back to him today, before this gets out of hand."

She leaves the unspoken ‘ _again’_ hanging in the air between them and steps back to the front desk where, after a brief word, the man on duty passes her a pen and paper. Quickly scribbling something down she hands it to Newt, and says, "That's his address and that's the number of the  streetcar you need to take, it'll get you most of the way there."

"What's this at the bottom?" he asks.

"That's a map! Look, this is where you get off, and then if you're lost someone will direct you, just show them this. Oh, and Newt, be careful. It's not hard to get there, and it's a good neighbourhood, but-"

"I'll be fine," he says bravely. "You go on and answer that summons."

Tina gives him an assessing look, almost enough to make him squirm, and then takes half a step towards him. For a second he thinks he's really going to get a hug this time, and then she stops herself again, clearly wary of doing anything of the sort in front of all these work colleagues. "All right, fine. But you - you _must_ meet me for lunch today! Will you? Please, Newt?"

He smiles, and nods, the idea of it suddenly a light at the end of this tunnel of a day. "I will."

"Great! Okay then," Tina says, already starting to back away as her alarm coin starts to buzz again. "1pm! Be here! I know somewhere close!"

Newt nods, gives her a little wave, and watches her vanish off up the steps leading up into the upper levels. She doesn't look back once, and suddenly he finds himself feeling awfully lonely and rather hoping that maybe perhaps she might have done, just the once. After a moment he realises that the man behind the front desk is watching him closely, and quickly he turns away, heading for the exit before anyone decides to get any strange ideas about his case again.

He's back five minutes later to ask where he can find the streetcar stop Tina's scribbled down for him, and then, _then_ he's on his way to the beast's lair.

 

*

 

Before coming to New York, Newt couldn’t have told you which parts of the city were the well to do ones. In all honesty, beyond not wanting to find himself in trouble with the local muggles, he couldn’t really say he cares, and furthermore, despite now being on his second visit, he still doesn’t know.

What he has worked out is that the area in which he’s found himself, having followed Tina’s instructions to the letter, is probably one of the smartest and most upper class regions of the city he’s seen so far. He comes to a halt in front of a tall townhouse with an imposing facade, its existence hidden from muggle notice by an extraordinarily slick set of disillusionment charms. Newt looks up the short flight of steps leading up to the unnumbered front door and hopes the wards aren’t going to eat him.

There’s a large brass knocker set in the middle of the door - which is painted an intimidatingly severe black, because of course it is - but which, despite Newt’s trepidation, doesn’t turn out to be enchanted to speech or biting or any kind of defensive mechanism that he can discern. So he knocks before his anxiety gets the better of him and sends him scurrying away back to the Woolworth Building to drop the pocket watch into someone’s lap and beg them to be good enough to forward it on. Or pay them, either would work. He could have done that, and Merlin knows he thought about it enough times on the way over here, but at the end of the day he needs MACUSA, its Director of Magical Security in particular, not to be upset with him and the simplest way is just to own right up.

The thud of the door knocker is deep and low, pitched to carry through the entirety of the house within. Newt does his best not to cringe, and shuffles his case from one hand to the other while he waits. The door begins to open, and he straightens up sharply, mind going suddenly blank of all the greetings he's prepared.

Newt had expected a house elf, or perhaps a member of Graves' family. What he gets instead is the man himself, dressed in a casual suit, but looking for all intents and purposes as though he's just woken up. Graves stares at him, bleary-eyed, and Newt can’t help it, he thinks _oh my, you look like shit_. As the first hint of a frown starts to darken the auror's face, Newt changes his assessment to be that Graves looks like he actually hasn't even slept since he last saw him.

"Uhm...hello, Mr Graves?"

"...Mr Scamander?"

Graves’ voice has a hint of hoarseness about it, and he clears his throat, blinking as he leans one hand on the edge of the door. Mind still blank, Newt simply gapes at him for a moment, the realisation that this is a bad time immediate and unwelcome. The thought of putting this off, apologising, and saying he'll come back another day is the first thing that springs into his head, but Graves' stare has started to sharpen, his dark brows pulling down into a confused frown, and there's no way Newt's going to get away from here without giving some sort of explanation, and really that simply means he may as well just go for it.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mr Graves. I ah, I wanted to return something to you."

Graves is still staring at him, still leaning against the door, and his look of confusion remains in place, though now it's got that curious hint of wry amusement to it that he's seen the auror wear when thoroughly perplexed by the inadequacies of all those around him. Newt is struck by the sudden bizarre thought that if an expression could somehow _drawl_ then this would be a prime example of it.

"Do you, ah, want to step inside, Mr Scamander?" Graves asks, interrupting Newt’s train of thought. He shakes his head as he speaks, as though clearing it of some kind of fuzz, and takes a step back.

"Oh!" Newt replies, startled. This had most definitely not been in his plan of action. "I, well, yes I suppose that would be better."

More private certainly, so he doesn't have to stand on the man's doorstep and hand over the watch where anyone on the street might see. Not that Newt's bothered about being seen here, more that he doesn't want to embarrass Mr Graves, considering the man's probably had quite enough exposure to scandal in the past year, and of course, scandal seems to follow Newt around these days like a devoted crup puppy. Even so, as he slides past Graves in the doorway it occurs to him that he's been invited in primarily out of politeness, and maybe even a little bit of shock, so really he ought to be careful not to outstay his welcome. He feels quite bad actually, as though he's taken advantage of the man's obvious wrong-footedness to intrude.

The inside of Graves' townhouse is, to Newt's complete unsurprise, a tidy and upscale place, well-kept and exquisitely styled. He catches a glimpse of pale walls, high ceilings and dark oak floors, before he fixes his attention on the auror. Graves closes the door behind them, and then turns to him with raised eyebrows. "Would you care to come thr-"

Newt, also already speaking, almost stops dead in embarrassment when he realises he's interrupted, then gathers his courage and ploughs on anyway. "I'm very sorry," he says, digging in his pocket for the watch. "I came to return this. You-" _You dropped it_ , he thinks to say, then meets Graves' eyes. No, even if he could lie to the man there's every likelihood Graves would simply lift the truth from Newt's gaze. It feels like the man could look right through him and wouldn't even have to try. "-the Niffler stole it, Mr Graves. I'm so sorry."

Newt holds out the pocket watch and lowers his gaze uncomfortably, unable to even risk a glance upwards to see how the auror is reacting, so strong is his shame on behalf of his creature. After a second he feels the pocket watch being lifted from his outstretched palm.

“I did wonder where this had gone. The Niffler took it, you say?”

Newt gives a silent nod of affirmation.

“The little guy, the one that robbed the bank? And the jewellery store on 3rd?”

Newt can feel himself cringing, but can’t force himself to stop. “Mhm, well, he’s very active. At night. And whenever...he, well, he sees something he likes. Which is, admittedly, quite a lot.”

Newt trails off, and the silence stretches. Graves tosses the pocket watch in his palm, its long golden chain clinking softly. Checking it over for damage, Newt assumes. “I think he polished it for you,” he offers softly, and when he hears Graves give a short, surprised bark of laughter, he risks a quick glance up. The auror has closed his fingers around the watch, gripping it tightly in one hand. He looks at Newt and there’s more amusement in his eyes than anything else Newt thinks should be there. No anger for one thing.

Surprised, but emboldened, Newt says, “I really am sorry, he’s quite irredeemable I’m afraid. But he means well.”

“Hm,” Graves replies.

For a moment they look at one another, and Newt notes again how tired the man looks. Not just sleepy, he thinks, _exhausted._ It’s quite a surprise then that he’s taking the return of his stolen watch quite so well. Of all the reactions Newt had expected, amusement hadn’t been one of them. After a few seconds he realises the silence between them risks becoming uncomfortable, and gripping his case tightly, he tries to frame a suitable way of working out if there’s going to be any more trouble before he can remove himself from Graves’ home and out from beneath his attention. If this is to be the conclusion of his encounter with all things MACUSA, then Newt will happily take that.

“Actually, Mr Scamander, there is one thing I would like to check with you.”

 _Oh no._ Newt tries for polite interest, all the while feeling a chill go down his spine. This is how it starts, this is how it always starts… He looks hopefully at Graves, desperate for something he can turn aside with a simple “ _I_ _have a permit for that!”_ and is mildly concerned to see Graves hesitate, a look of discomfort creasing his features. The man actually glances away for a moment in what Newt reads as embarrassment, before apparently getting a grip on his courage.

“That salve you gave me, it’s ah, I think it’s having some side-effects.” Graves looks at Newt with a somewhat apologetic wince, as though all this is terribly silly of him.

Newt blinks in surprise, and then concern. Salamander balm doesn’t really have side-effects that he’s ever encountered, so this is quite a worrying development. “What kind of side-effects?”

Graves pauses only momentarily before he replies. “A...rash?”

That’s highly unusual, Newt thinks. “Show me,” he says, and as soon as the words have left his mouth he realises he could have been a tad less forward about the request. Possibly made it sound less like an order for one thing. Graves, for his part, merely nods, and indicates that Newt should follow him further into the house.

He leads Newt into a small sitting room just off the hall which has a fire crackling cheerfully in the grate, and then pulls out a chair from the writing desk pushed up against one corner. Graves takes the seat and tugs his shirt out of his trousers, lifting the material, turning himself to the light streaming in from the window, so that Newt can see clearly.

Newt sets down his case and takes a knee next to the chair. The skin of Graves’ flank, in an area that stretches from just below his ribs, across his left kidney and down below the belt of his trousers, is a flood of tiny red dots that look angry and fierce against his normally pale flesh.

Newt carefully takes the edge of Graves’ shirt, and then with raised eyebrows asks, “May I?” Graves simply nods, and Newt lifts the edge of his shirt higher to follow the path of the discolouration upwards across his back.

Percival Graves is _scarred._ Newt keeps his expression carefully neutral as he looks only where the rash appears, but even then he cannot help but see the evidence of wounding that marrs the other man’s skin. There are old scars here, from damage Newt knows must have been magical to leave behind such traces, and _that one_ , that web of scarring like a complex fork of lightning picked out across his skin, that’s the mark of a direct hit from a ravaging hex. Horrible, horrible things, and Newt fights to stop his lips from twisting into a wince. He’s here to look at the rash, not gawp at the man’s war wounds. Percival’s an auror, and this type of thing, as Newt knows only too well from seeing some of the damage on Theseus, is all in the line of duty for wizards such as them.

"Itching? Pain?" Newt asks.

Graves shakes his head. "No, I only noticed it when I dressed this morning."

There's something in the tone of his voice that makes Newt look up at him, not entirely certain that's the truth. He doesn't push it though, unsure exactly why Graves would lie, or even what he would be lying about. Maybe he's just proud? Newt supposes that he could be the type to conceal difficulties and pain, but then again, he'd accepted the balm in first place with enough good grace that Newt doubts he'd deliberately obscure relevant details just to save face. Odd.

"I think you're allergic to the Aluca butter," he says eventually, letting the hem of Graves' shirt drop. "It's not the Salamander scales, it's the thickener for the balm. I can make you up something with a different base. Did it work otherwise?"

Graves nods readily. "Yes, it was really very helpful. Very effective."

Newt nods. "I'll make you up something with a different base then. You can heal the rash away by the way, it's not magical in nature."

"Ah, I wasn't sure. I didn't want to touch it until I'd checked with you."

Newt climbs back to his feet and turns politely away as Graves puts his clothing back in place. He takes the opportunity to look around the room a little, and his eyes fall on the bottle of firewhisky out on the side table next to one of the armchairs facing the fire. Someone has unsurprisingly expensive tastes, if that label's anything to go by. Double doors lead from the small sitting room into a large dining room, the space taken up with a dark wood table that could easily sit twelve people. The room is quiet and looks like it's stood undisturbed and unused for some time. Newt hadn't seen another entrance to the townhouse, but this place has four storeys and must be easily large enough to fit an entire clan of wizardfolk. The house is quiet though, save for the rustle of Graves' clothing as he adjusts it, and the snap and crackle of the fire in the grate.

"Mr Scamander, I wonder. There's no chance your little guy could have taken anything else, is there?"

The words are ice down his spine, and Newt turns to face the auror, very briefly feeling himself to be adopting the wide-eyed look of horror of a gazelle facing down a Nundu. "I, ah," he stumbles, "I do hope not, Mr Graves, though- though I suppose it's entirely possible? I suppose you could, I mean, what is it? What do you think he's taken?"

Graves shrugs, almost dismissively, and half-winces. "Possibly a chain, with a trinket on the end...? You didn't happen to notice it last night?"

"I didn’t, but you could come down and have a look if you like? I'll check, I mean we can check his nest, and I'll make up the new balm for you once we're done."

"That sounds reasonable,” Graves nods.

Even fizzing with a fresh wave of anxiety, Newt still maintains enough presence of mind to set politeness aside for just a moment, and take the opportunity presented by a descent into his case to surreptitiously guage just how well Graves is moving after the application of his balm. He may not be a full healer, but Newt has done his fair share of patching up beasts and people - mostly himself - and he can read the way a person moves well enough to know when there’s something wrong. To his satisfaction, Graves moves with far less stiffness than the previous evening, and any slowness he exhibits Newt is willing to attribute to his apparently poor night’s sleep.

They’ve left his case in the middle of the sitting room, where Graves assured him it wouldn’t be tampered with. “No-one’s going to come by and move it…?” Newt had worried, to which the reply had been that there’s no-one _to_ move it, they’re the only ones in the house. _No family, no staff?_ Newt had wondered, but hadn’t asked. Instead he’d let that slide as yet another slightly odd thing about Percival Graves that is probably mostly down to cultural differences this side of the Pond. At least, he hopes so.

The Niffler is nowhere to be seen by the time they reach his lair. Newt puts his palms either side of the entrance and peers inside, “Hm, yes, I think he’s right in the back, you might be able to see him if he moves, but he’ll probably stay out of sight for now. _He knows he’s still in trouble_.” That last is said with some volume, making Graves raise an eyebrow at him. “Here, you take a look, see if you can spot what you’re after.”

Carefully, Graves manoeuvres into position, looking with interest inside the softly glowing burrow. The light seems to come from a scattering of glowing crystals that have been set into the heaps of gold and trinketry filling the lair. “What are the lights?” Graves asks curiously.

“Oh those? They’re all sorts of things. There’s a few crystal decanter stoppers, some decorative bits, anything that’s got a bit of value to it - he won’t take just any old tat, far too discerning for that - and ah, they’re all enchanted with a lumos spell. Low level of course, keeps it going for months. He likes them because they glitter and I like them because they let me see what he’s up to in there.”

“Hm,” Graves says, and Newt thinks the auror might be just a tiny bit impressed. He’s not sure what to make of that. He watches as Graves makes a delicate twisting gesture with the fingers of one hand, his head tilted slightly in concentration. After a second he steps back, shaking his head. “No, it’s not in there. He hasn’t got it. Sorry about that, I just couldn’t find it and it should have been in my pocket. I must have dropped it.”

Newt nods, filled with relief, but nonetheless makes a mental note to keep an eye out for it, on the off-chance the Niffler’s decided to employ a little bit of extra cunning. “Oh!” he says suddenly. “There you are. Mr Graves, look!”

Newt lifts his chin in the direction of the glowing burrow, and Graves turns back to see what he’s noticed. The Niffler has crept out of hiding in the depths of his lair, and is standing in the entrance to his burrow, looking between the two of them with wary curiosity. “Ah,” Graves says. “Hello, little guy. I believe I owe you an apology.”

“You absolutely do not,” Newt mutters. “Don’t encourage him, Mr Graves. He needs to learn to keep his hands to himself!”

“Even so,” Graves says soberly, still directing his attention at the Niffler. “I see you don’t have what I’m searching for, and I’m sorry I assumed you might. However, if perhaps you were to find it on your travels, I would very much appreciate its safe return.”

Newt is looking at Graves strangely, unable to work out if he’s being humoured or teased, neither of which he really expects from an auror he’d taken as being rather strict under normal circumstances. Most people, himself not included of course, don’t tend to talk to magical beasts as though they’re equals, even when they’re perfectly capable of understanding. Maybe the man is feeling the strain of his poor sleeping habits, he thinks. “Well, perhaps you’d follow me, and I’ll go make up some replacement balm for you?”

They return to Newt’s shed, and with a “Close the door behind you, keep the heat in,” tossed back over his shoulder, Newt seats Graves in the single battered chair in the corner, and turns back to his cupboards to start pulling out the ingredients he needs. “Shouldn’t be long, about quarter of an hour. I just need to boil a few things up for the base, and then mix it all. Sorry about the heat in here, I’ve got some Fwooper eggs incubating under the desk. Mother’s rejected them, but I caught her doing it early enough I think I can get them through to hatching successfully.”

As he works, Newt details the ingredients he’s using and the preparation methods, thinking that perhaps if he explains what he’s doing then Graves will feel more confident about applying another of his balms. Considering the first one had been such a mixed bag of success versus unpleasant side-effects when he’d specifically promised there would be nothing but benefits to using it, Newt feels it’s probably rather likely that Graves is at least a little reluctant to trust him again. Quite understandable really.

It takes him closer to twenty minutes to get everything ready, and he’s left wondering if he should tell Graves to let the balm cool naturally or if he can risk a chilling charm on it to get it down to storage temperature. Eventually he decides the chilling charm risks deactivating the active ingredients too much, namely the Salamander scales, and he turns to explain this. “Mr Graves, this is still a bit- oh, ah right.”

Newt trails off and stops, suddenly unsure of what to do. At some point while he was preparing the balm, it appears that Graves has simply...dozed off. The heat in here, Newt assumes, it must have been a perfect combination with his tiredness. Not only that but the Kneazle, Misty, is back, curled up in the auror’s lap and watching Newt through slowly blinking emerald eyes. “Well then,” Newt says to her softly. “You both appear to be very comfortable, but I don’t think either of you can really stay like that.”

Carefully, he takes a step closer, and then pauses, unwilling to get too close. “Mr Graves? Mr Graves…?” Gently, Newt reaches out and touches the auror’s shoulder with just the tips of his fingers. Immediately, Graves startles awake, blinking and surprised.

“Right so,” Newt says, choosing, for the sake of Graves’ pride, to pretend as though he’d barely even noticed the man simply falling asleep in his shed. “Here’s the balm, it’s made up but it’s going to need cooling down.”

Graves swallows hard and blinks, almost dislodging the Kneazle from his lap in his effort to straighten up, and only just manages to abort the movement without causing a mighty digging-in of claws. He nods and makes a noise of acknowledgement in his throat. “I see.”

“I don’t recommend using a chilling charm on it, because you’ll weaken the potency of the scales. So just leave it out on the side to cool, then put the lid on when it’s only as warm as the one I gave you. I mean, it’s Salamander balm, it never fully cools, as you know. Then just apply it as you did the other and _no you bloody don’t!”_

The Niffler, reaching around Graves’ hip, the tip of its claws just beginning to hook the chain of Graves’ pocket watch out of his trouser pocket, freezes and stares up at him. Newt dives forward with an infuriated shout, the sudden movement making the Niffler flee, the Kneazle dig her claws in, and Graves to flinch wildly back from all of them.

“What-!”

“You little bugger! _Get back here!_ Mr Graves, very sorry, the Niffler, he was after your pocket watch again!”

Pressed back hard against the back of his chair, Graves gives Newt an astonished look, then follows the direction of Newt’s glare to see the Niffler’s tail end just squeezing itself under the shed door. “Did he get it?” he asks, fumbling at his pocket. “Oh, he did. You know, I didn’t even notice him doing it, that’s incredible.”

Newt pauses in his attempt to clamber past Graves within the narrow confines of his shed, and draws up short at the tone of wonderment in the auror’s voice. “Well, yes, actually. Nifflers really are quite fascinating and impressive in their own way. They’re very subtle creatures, although you can’t train them at all. But as you say, remarkably skilled.” He gives Graves a nod of shared appreciation, and then frowns. “Right, but we really ought to catch him, Mr Graves. He can’t be allowed to keep it.”

Graves nods, hauls himself to his feet, and puts out a hand. “Go!” he says, with some eagerness.

It takes them a good half hour to finally bring the beast to bay. The chase leads them back through the Graphorn habitat, under the water enclosure, through the tunnels and back, and by the time they corner him in the remnants of what used to be the Siberian enclosure, Newt is almost entirely certain that Graves is not taking this chase at all seriously. Nonetheless, it’s the auror who finally manages to land a spell that sticks to the Niffler’s hide, lifting the creature up into the air where his claws can find no purchase to allow him to escape, and holding him there.

“All yours now, Mr Scamander,” Graves says, his normally neatly styled hair fallen a little out of place, his cheeks flushed from the exertion, and, what Newt is sure is a smile hovering around his lips. If Newt didn’t know better he’d say the auror is actually _enjoying_ this.

“Right you! Come here!”

Newt takes a hold of the fat little body, and begins to shake him out while Graves watches in fascinated horror. Gold coins, a shiny key, one of the glowing crystals, and finally, Graves’ pocket watch all tumble out in a glitter of treasure to fall onto the floor. Graves snags his pocket watch out of the air before it hits the ground and floats it back to his own hand. The Niffler hangs upside-down in Newt’s grip and gives him a mournful look.

“Now then, back to your burrow with you!” Newt marches the Niffler out of the habitat and back to his lair, with Graves following after. The auror makes a gesture with his hand that collects up the discarded treasure, and sends it floating along behind them. He deposits it on the rim of the burrow, much to Newt’s surprise.

“Oh, thank you,” Newt says. “I’m really very sorry for that, he’s just _incorrigible_.”

Graves gives a soft hum of what sounds strangely like amusement, and shrugs lightly. “I suppose it’s the nature of the beast,” he muses, and Newt blinks. He really is taking all this very well. He’s starting to wonder if Graves might have a secret fondness for beasts. That would be...quite wonderful actually, if he does say so himself. Entirely unexpected, but nonetheless something to be welcomed. Still, all this fuss had hardly been in his plans for this morning.

“Still, I really shouldn’t take up any more of your time, Mr Graves.”

Graves, who had been staring thoughtfully into the Niffler’s lair, seems to snap out of his distraction, straightening up and pocketing his retrieved watch. “Of course. I imagine you have plenty to do in the city today.”

Not quite that much, Newt thinks, but certainly plenty enough things that are absolutely nothing to do with causing trouble right here in your home. Instead of replying, he simply ducks his head and smiles politely.

They make their way back to Newt’s shed, where the Salamander balm, discarded before the chase, has had enough time to cool to its usual temperature. Newt is packaging this up for Graves, going over the instructions one last time, when there’s a sharp rapping on the outside of his case. Both men stare up at the trapdoor in the ceiling that represents the inside of the case’s lid, Newt in confusion, and Graves with a sudden tension. Newt glances at Graves in query and finds the man’s eyes narrowed, his posture tense. Gone is any trace of his previous good humour, replaced by the kind of coiled aggression Newt has only seen in his brother on the rare occasions he’s been next to him in a scrap. Graves’ hand hovers at his hip, his wand not yet drawn, but the idea of it clearly in his head.

Hurriedly, Newt steps in front of him. “Ah, who is it?” he calls up.

There’s a moment’s pause, and then a voice replies, “Mr Scamander? It’s Ibrahim, Ibrahim Ismail. I don’t suppose you have Percival down there, do you?”

Newt sees the tension go out of Graves, and the auror sighs, shaking his head. “Stay up there, Ibrahim, we’re coming out.”

“Here, let me,” Newt says, hurrying up the ladder and unlatching the lid. He emerges with Percival close on his heels to find Ismail standing, hands in the pockets of his suit, looking down at them, head tilted in curiosity.

“10am, my friend,” Ismail says, and Graves winces, glancing up at the clock on the mantelpiece. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” Graves asks.

“Oh _no,”_ Newt gasps. “Graves, quickly! Don’t let him-!”

It is, of course, too late.

Chasing an escaped Niffler around the inside of the private home of MACUSA’s Director of Magical Security, the man who quite literally holds the power of life and death over folk of the wizarding community and absolutely over beasts of the magical variety, is as terrifically horrifying as Newt could ever have expected it to be. Graves’ house contains _so many_ expensive things. Newt is so deeply embarrassed, so numbingly terrified that this is it, this is going to be the very last straw that breaks the Graphorn’s back and sends it on a metaphorical stampede of furious legal retribution. He’s going to get kicked out of the country. They’re going to take his case. What if they actually execute the Niffler? He had that threatened a few years back in France, and they only just escaped by the skin of their teeth!

He narrowly avoids a terribly fragile and antique-looking side table as he skids out into the corridor in pursuit of the beast. There’s a shouted spell from behind him and a glimmering force shield appears some distance up a rather impressive spiral staircase that sweeps up to the upper levels, cutting off that route of escape. The Niffler veers off down the corridor, and Graves appears at Newt’s shoulder, peering after him. “Ah, he’s heading for the kitchens!”

“What the bloody hell- was that a _Niffler?_ Mr Scamander, was that a Niffler? A real one?” Ismail asks, bringing up the rear. “I haven’t seen one of those since Professor Argot’s Magizoology class back at Hogwarts! Is she still there by the way?”

“Oh, yes, yes she is! You went to Hogwarts? That’s-”

“Gentlemen, if you don’t mind. Let’s get after him!”

Graves’ kitchen turns out to be a far safer location for a Niffler hunt, bare of anything that looks too obviously antique and expensive, but nonetheless still containing the threat of heirloom crockery and of course the family silver. Newt can hear the Niffler already making its pilfering way through a rattling drawer, stuffing who knows how much precious silverware into its pouch, and who’s to say the Graves family even _has_ silverware? Judging by the rest of the decor he’d be entirely unsurprised to find they ate off solid platinum dining ware.

Glimmering seals appear on every exit with a flick of Graves’ fingers, as Newt starts opening drawers with as much care as he possibly can. The Niffler however is already through the first set of drawers and heading at blinding speed across the floor. He really is very good at using all available cover to minimise the chance of being grabbed by a spell, and despite previously displaying a level of magical skill that involves some amount of wandless magic, Ismail is too busy looking skittish to be of much use, and Graves is in entirely the wrong place. Both aurors are peering under the kitchen table, with Newt heading around to cut the creature off when he spots another door.

“Where does that go?” Newt demands.

“Basement,” Graves replies. “It’s locked.”

“He can get under that gap, ward it!”

The Niffler doesn’t make it down to the basement, but he does get into the pantry. By the time they emerge from there Newt is covered in flour, there are cans everywhere, and he’s absolutely certain that no-one, including Percival Graves, is taking this chase as seriously as they ought to. In fact, if he didn’t know better he’d say the pair of aurors are very nearly messing around, which is absolutely infuriating. Niffler claws can be extremely sharp, and Mr Ismail could have been seriously scratched when the beast leapt off the top shelf of the pantry, bounced off his head and escaped between his feet. What’s worse, Newt’s fairly certain the immediate coughing fit from Graves’ direction indicates the chase might have stirred up other physical injuries the man might have been hiding in addition to the muscle aches.

Even so, it’s Graves that catches him in the end. With the deftest bit of wandwork Newt has ever seen, he plucks the Niffler out from behind a French dresser, and floats him over to the table, before turning him upside-down to empty him of his ill gotten gains. As each bit of stolen treasure clatters to the tabletop, Newt feels himself becoming more and more embarrassed, and even more deeply afraid of the consequences of this latest escapade. Chasing him around Newt’s suitcase had been one thing. For him to get out and rampage around the Director’s house is quite another. Newt almost wishes the chase were still ongoing because at least then he’d be able to focus on that. Standing here and watching someone’s favourite egg spoon, handed down lovingly from generation to generation, come tumbling out of the Niffler’s pouch is absolutely mortifying.

Satisfied finally that every last piece of contraband has been retrieved, Graves turns with a raised eyebrow and says sternly, “Your Niffler, Mr Scamander.”

Newt almost fumbles his wand in his haste to take over the spell, and then hurriedly floats the Niffler out of the kitchen and back to the sitting room where he shoves him quite unceremoniously back into his case, re-locking and securing it firmly behind him. He grimaces at the trail of floury footprints he’s left behind on the deep red rug and is hastily casting a cleaning charm when he notices the two aurors stood in the doorway watching him.

“Oh! Um, I’m terribly sorry, Mr Graves,” he whispers.

“Never mind, Mr Scamander,” Graves says mildly. “He’s all locked up tight again?”

“Ah, yes. He’s secure. They’re all secure.” It had actually been rather remiss earlier of Newt to let Graves exit the case last, because the man wouldn’t have had any idea to reset the disinclination charms behind himself. “My fault entirely.”

“Perhaps,” Graves replies. “I hope you understand we can’t have him running all over town again making trouble.”

“Oh yes, absolutely, Mr Graves. I fully understand,” Newt says wretchedly, feeling the desire to squirm beneath the combined weight of the aurors’ attention like a physical need.

“Well, if you hadn’t let the little bugger out in the first place, Percival,” Ismail murmurs quietly, and Graves gives him a flat, unfriendly stare.

“All right, Mr Scamander, I’ll see you to the door.”

“No, let me,” Ismail interrupts him. “I need to have a word with Scamander anyway, so I’ll see him out. Go tidy your kitchen. And this carpet could do with a clean too, really. Honestly Percival.”

Newt allows himself to be ushered to the door, giving Graves a quick last glance as he passes. He’s not sure if he should be saying something more to apologise, or if he needs to make reparations of any kind, or if maybe the only thing he should be doing is leaving and never coming back. Possibly leaving the country, that might not be too bad an idea.

Graves gives him a polite nod as he passes, but he’s still watching Newt and Newt daren’t quite meet his eyes at the moment, so, unable to read the auror’s expression he simply heads shamefaced for the exit.

Newt is out on the doorstep, almost to freedom, when Ismail pulls the door mostly closed to conceal them, and leans through the gap to say quietly, “I have no idea what you two were up to today, but well done.”

“Excuse me?” Newt says blankly.

Ismail gives him a considering look, then a wry smile. “I haven’t seen him laugh like that in a long time, Mr Scamander.”

Newt scoffs. “I don’t think he was laughing, Mr Ismail. I think he was rather put out, and rightfully so.”

“Hm,” Ismail replies. He glances back over his shoulder, pulling the door even further closed. “Look, why don’t you come to dinner tonight, and we can discuss this a little more? Say, seven thirty at the Bathtub Brew? It’s on Eldridge Street, 135, look for the black cat in the second floor window. Knock on the green door, password’s “Don’t let the cat out.””

“Wait, what?” Newt stammers, but by the time he thinks to say anything else, the great black door has been closed in his face, and he’s staring at the silent door knocker. He’s very nearly tempted to give it a knock and demand to know what on earth the man is playing at, but that would alert Graves too, and the last thing he wants to do today is risk facing him again. On the other hand, who _is_ this man, and why on earth has he shown up here again today? For a split second Newt wonders if he’s been monumentally stupid. Perhaps Ismail lives here, which would explain how he got in, and perhaps he lives here because...Newt colours slightly. If that’s the case he’s made even more of a fool of himself than he thought, letting the Niffler out and putting Graves’ partner at risk like that. Not that there had been any real risk, but so often people don’t see the matter quite that way. No wonder Graves had been so stern at the end.

Out of options, and somewhat put out himself, Newt gives the door one last defeated frown, and hurriedly makes his escape.

 

*

 

 

“Oh Merlin. Oh Tina, it was _awful._ ”

Face buried in his folded arms, Newt can’t see Tina’s reaction, but he can imagine it. Hidden away in their booth in the quiet little cafe she’s brought them to, they await their lunch orders, and Newt hides from his shame.

“Are you absolutely sure he invited you to the Bathtub Brew?” Tina asks.

“Yes.”

“Today? Tonight?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Ibrahim Ismail invited you?”

“Yes, Tina,” needled by her continued questioning on the least important of topics, Newt finally lifts his head from the tabletop. “Who is this Mr Ismail anyway?”

Tina’s eyebrows lift, and she sets down her coffee with a clack of china on china. “Newt, he’s-” she stops, looks around, then lowers her voice, leaning further in. “Ibrahim’s Mr Graves’ second in command. He’s an auror.”

“Yes, well, I’d gathered that,” Newt mutters. “But is he...you know, are they…?”

Tina stares at him blankly.

“Are they _together_ , Tina?”

“They’re partners, Newt,” she replies. “Graves and Ismail have worked together for years in the department. They were there long before I became an auror. They’ve run the place for a long time, no-one really dares cross them, and no-one has any reason to. Mr Graves is excellent at what he does, and Ismail always backs him up.”

“So they _are_ ,” Newt grimaces. Graves really does have every reason to be angry with him.

“...are what?”

He sighs and could almost roll his eyes in exasperation. “ _Lovers_ , Tina,” he whispers. Really sometimes he just cannot understand Americans and their strange thought patterns. He’d thought he was being quite obvious. The cultural divide really does feel quite vast sometimes.

Tina gives him a startled bark of laughter. “Graves and Ismail?! No! No! Mercy Lewis, no! Newt, whatever gave you that idea? Graves doesn’t date! They’re _work_ partners, you sap. Aurors work in pairs over here, don’t you do that back in England?”

“I-...well, no I don’t really know,” he stumbles, surprised. He knows Theseus has other aurors under his command, and there’s a few names that come up more than others, but partners? Not that Newt knows of.

Tina tilts her head at him in curiosity. “Does that make you uncomfortable, the two of them?”

“What?” Newt says blankly, realising from her tone that she’s fishing for one answer in particular. “Oh! No! No, the two of them, together, no. No it’s not that, don’t be ridiculous, I’m not one of _those_ types, Tina. I just, I couldn’t work out why he was there this morning, and you know, honestly I thought it couldn’t have been any worse if I’d managed to go and set a Niffler loose around his beau.”

“His _beau,_ ” Tina snorts. “Newt, please. Graves and Ismail have a strictly professional relationship. They’re just friends. Unholy terrors to the rest of us, but honestly, if you’ve gone and messed up the guy you want to take it to is Ismail.”

Newt digests this information in silence for a moment. “So why wasn’t he around last year?”

Tina’s face darkens, and she frowns uncomfortably. She lowers her voice so that Newt has to lean in to hear. “One of the first things Grindelwald did was get rid of any of us that might work out what he’d done. A whole lot of people got transferred out and away, all for really good reasons, so it seemed at the time, but looking back… Anyway, Ismail was the first to go. Grindelwald had him sent over to Russia, chasing ghosts it turns out in the end. After everything came to light, Picquery ordered him back and while our Graves was recovering Ibrahim took up running the department.” She leans back in her seat. “And of course, now Graves is back on duty, he’s back in charge and Ibrahim’s back as his second.”

“Everything back to normal,” Newt murmurs.

Tina makes a face, and Newt tilts his head in query.

“Well, things have been awkward, to say the least,” she says. “I told you some of this in my letters, but I didn’t want to put all of it down in writing, in case, well, you know.”

“In case it got lost.”

“Yes, quite. You know, it’s not that I don’t trust you, Newt, it’s just common-”

“-sense,” he finishes with her. “It’s okay, Tina. I get it.”

They have to pause then, as a server brings their food over, and for a few minutes neither of them speak, too busy concentrating on their lunches. Despite his nerves and his earlier escapades, Newt finds himself hungry enough to eat immediately, and sets to with enthusiasm. The confirmation that Ismail is Graves’ work partner is strangely reassuring, though he has to say that it had been a little bit sad to hear Tina’s dismissal of the whole concept of his dating _._ _Percival Graves doesn’t date._ Newt supposes that he understands. A man as busy and powerful as Graves must be barely able to find the time for such things. Still though, everyone needs company. Newt has an entire menagerie to keep him company after all.

“So what exactly is wrong with him?” Newt asks, thinking of Graves still, and how he’d moved with such painful stiffness last evening.

Tina hums her dislike of the topic, but says, “Well, he’s got some physical problems, as you appear to have worked out. He’s only just gone back on active duty, that raid on the speakeasy the other night was his first real field job, and he wasn’t even the lead for it. Myers has been moved up to Serious Crime, so Graves is mentoring him. Anyway, so there’s that. It’s a little unnerving watching him limp around some days, I mean, he hides it well, but he doesn’t go far any more. No-one knows exactly what happened to him, but it was definitely something Grindelwald did.”

They both wince, and Newt finds himself suddenly put off the rest of his food.

“He’s been a bit off the last few months too, I mean, you expect that of course, but still.”

“Off?”

“You know. _Off_. He’s quieter. I mean, he was never talkative with us, but he’s...he’s more withdrawn these days. He only really speaks to Ibrahim and, well, I guess I speak to him more than ever now I’m back on the team. Just, it’s kinda weird. I think he’s paranoid. I get it, I really do! I mean, if I were in his position I’d be paranoid too.”

Newt nods his head in encouragement, forcing down a bit more salad, reluctant to waste food. “Paranoid?”

“Well, he does a lot of double checking these days. Sometimes he’ll ask the strangest questions, like he’s checking your knowledge, or like he’s making sure of things. Random things; routines, places, dates. I guess, well. It’s understandable. Look, Newt, I don’t like to gossip, we’re all just really worried about him. And, well,” she looks down at her plate, fork hovering over her meal. “I think we all feel incredibly bad about what happened. No-one noticed, Newt. Not for _months._ There’s been so much trouble about it.”

Newt sighs, and looks down at his food. It all sounds like rather a large mess really. A large, painful, embarrassing mess for an awful lot of people, not least of them Graves himself. To have had no-one you know even notice that you’re gone, even people with whom you’ve worked day in, day out. If it ever happened to Newt would anyone notice? He thinks they would. He _hopes_ they would. Tina would know, Queenie too. Theseus, his parents, and of course, none of his beasts would be fooled for a moment. The idea of being so alone that shuffling the barest minimum of people out of your immediate vicinity would make it easy for no-one to notice you’d been replaced makes him shiver. How dreadfully lonely.

No wonder Graves is asking strange questions. Trying to build bridges, restore ties, and all the while doing it while fighting the emotional aftermath of his capture and all that entailed. People seem to forget that Graves had been locked up for three months by Grindelwald, to expect him to just jump straight back in is ridiculous. He must be incredibly paranoid, and- Newt frowns. Something has occurred to him in a flash of clarity, so obvious that he could very well kick himself. _Oh, I wonder,_ he thinks, _I wonder, Mr Ismail, if this is what all this is really about._

Tina is speaking again, and Newt blinks, returning his attention to her. “Um, I’m sorry?”

“So why _are_ you going to dinner with Ibrahim tonight?” she asks.

Why indeed. Newt shrugs, and laughs uneasily. “I uh, I need to ask him about permits,” he says. Tina’s silence tells him that she’s either unconvinced, or taking her time getting a run up to outright suspicion. “I’m thinking about rescuing another Thunderbird!”

Newt looks up at her, his smile bright. He is not thinking about another Thunderbird, not even close, but the declaration has exactly the desired effect, and he settles back as she draws in a deep breath to begin grilling him on his latest perceived attempt to threaten the secrecy of all wizard-kind.

No, Newt isn’t rescuing a Thunderbird, but he has the feeling that he’s being drawn into a rescue of another sort, one that may be just as important, and almost certainly one which runs the risk of  being even more awkward. However, until he knows exactly what it is he’s getting himself into, and for who, he’s not sure he can tell anyone that doesn’t already know. After all, as he’s already made quite clear to one auror this week, it’s really not his place to discuss personal business with anyone but the people directly involved, whoever they might be.

Pushing aside the last of his salad, Newt gives Tina a smile that he hopes doesn’t come across filled entirely with all the guilt he feels about lying to her, and does his best not to let his anxiety show.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied, this chapter is in fact longer than the last one. Considering this is supposed to be the “short” story I’m writing while I get my head round what I’m doing for the actual long one I’ve got planned, I’m not sure I’m okay with the definition of short any more. Which leads me to Chapter 3 - please be patient for this next one, because judging by how previous chapters’ plans have translated into wordcount, it’s also going to be quite a long one. On the other hand, it's going to be very Graves-centric with a great deal from his POV, so there's that?


	3. Marmite, Gentle and Beautiful, Mesmeric and Calming.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of unexpected guests, sleepless nights, and social quandaries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait - this one’s actually slightly longer than the first two chapters put together, oof, so thank you for being patient!
> 
> A quick note, the Marmites aren’t in the book version of FB, I actually only found reference to them in an article when I was googling for “Glowing squid creature Newt carries around”. Remember the glowy thing he bottle feeds in the case when he's showing Jacob around? That's the Marmite.

_**Part I ~ Unexpected Company.** _

  


“Why are we here again?” Graves asks, trying for good humour and almost succeeding. He resists the urge to massage his throbbing temples, but there’s a deep, persistent ache in the front of his skull that no amount of firewhisky will touch. That balm of Scamander’s is starting to wear off making his entire left flank and hip ache like a bastard, and he is, quite frankly, exhausted.

“We’re getting you back into the spirit of living!” Ibrahim Ismail declares, motioning the barman to send another drink their way. He glances sideways at Percival, giving him a frown of concern. “You did take your potions before we came out...?” he murmurs.

“Damn you, stop fussing me,” Graves snaps with a scowl. He has not taken his potions, not all of them anyway. The ones for energy cleansing that can’t be stopped once a course is begun - those he’s swallowed down, most of the rest he’s left in their box on his bedside table. He despises them, and he won’t be forced to rely on liquid crutches doled out by an endless chain of smug healers.

“My friend, we’re eating here tonight,” Ismail says, “And I refuse to sit through this entire evening with you on the opposite side of the table with a face like a hag’s backside. Take the damned potions, for my sake if not your own.”

The barman slides a glass of whisky across the counter towards them, and Ismail bats it sideways into Graves’ hand. He himself is on his usual pot of tea, and Graves doesn’t think he’s ever met a man that enjoys living up to a nation’s stereotype more than Ismail. He watches with a sour expression as his friend takes a dainty sip, and then, hiding the movement of one hand behind the other, uses the cover of his body to empty a small vial of green liquid into his tumbler. Tucking the vial back into his pocket he swills the mixture, and then takes a drink. “Merciful fucking Morgana,” he mutters. “They do their damnedest to make this stuff taste like poison.”

“All the best medicines, my friend,” Ismail says, drawing his pipe and tobacco tin out of his inner pocket. Graves grimaces, and downs the rest of the whisky. Vile, absolutely vile. He sets the tumbler aside, and lets the potion do its work. He can feel it settling into his stomach with all the warmth of a loved one’s embrace, spreading its effects outward through his body. This one acts fast, and he closes his eyes briefly, breathing deep as it warms him from the inside out, washing away the aches and pains of the day, and soothing the ever-present remnants of the curse damage still lingering in his bones.

He realises that he’s drifting slightly when Ibrahim bumps his shoulder with his own, and slides another glass of liquid in front of him. Graves blinks down at it, straightening up and throwing off the soporific effects of the potion. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“No, I’m trying to get you to relax,” Ismail replies mildly.

“I am relaxed. I don’t need you turning me into an alcoholic.”

Ismail hums an agreement. “No, you seem to be doing that quite well on your own.”

Graves pauses, tumbler partway to his lips. “Excuse me?”

Ismail is examining the rows of bottles along the back of the bar, or at least he appears to be. The wall is made entirely of mirrors onto which the shelves and bottle racks are attached, and it’s the reflections in this that his dark eyes are watching. “I see you’re almost through another bottle.”

“Oh, don’t start with me,” Graves says, shaking his head in disgust. He knows to what the other man is referring, the nearly empty bottle of firewhisky he must have spotted in the sitting room this morning. Graves had meant to put that away before he came round, but what with Scamander and his Niffler he’d just not had the chance.

“I’m not starting anything,” Ismail says. “And anyway, that’s water, so simmer down.”

Graves looks down into the tumbler, and frowns. He’d just assumed it was more whisky, but now he pays attention it’s clearly something far less stiff. Briefly he closes his eyes and lets a long, slow breath escape. When he opens them again he catches Ismail’s eye in the mirrored wall. The other man is watching him in silence, expression neutral as he draws on his pipe. Graves shakes his head in apology, and runs a hand through his hair.

It has been a long day. A long week. An excruciatingly long year. He’s tired, and it’s not just the fatigue that comes with the evening. He’s bone-deep tired, the type of tired that never gets better with a night’s sleep. Not that he sleeps well these days. He hates it, the cycle of it, the not sleeping and then the sleeping and the still being exhausted, and then the not sleeping again because there’s so much to do, there’s just so many damned things to fix, even now.

“Come on, old man,” Ismail says softly. “Snap out of it.”

Graves gives him a disbelieving look through the mirror, and the sudden, red-hot urge to start a fight rises in his chest. “Snap out of it,” he repeats flatly, voice low and dangerous to one that knows him. “You want for me to snap out of it? Shall I dance a happy jig for you too?”

Ismail turns his head away and breathes out a plume of smoke. “If it pleases you, my friend. But first, listen. You’re winding yourself up again. I don’t need legilimency to read your thoughts and see you’re working yourself up into a tizzy. That’s not what today was supposed to be about.”

“Was it not?”

“Come on, Percy, you were doing so well this morning.”

“Don’t-” Graves bites the rest of his words off, pressing his mouth into the curl of his fingers, elbow against the bartop. He breathes out long and deep, riding out the anger, letting it pass. This is not how it’s supposed to be, and it’s not what Ismail deserves. It’s been a year already, and he should be better than this by now.

“I’m sorry, Ibe. I’m tired.”

Ismail taps the bowl of his pipe on the top of the bar, but otherwise doesn’t react. He never does, not really. He’s as calm and unflappable as the day Graves met him again. He assumes that’s always been his way. Really though, how would he ever know? And of course Ismail’s dealt with far worse than this from Graves over the last few months. Quite honestly Graves thinks the man must be some kind of saint for all the loyalty and patience he’s shown through the dark days, and the darker nights.

“Merlin, I’m tired of this.”

Ismail does glance at him then, his expression sympathetic. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you are better than you were six months ago.”

Graves gives the idea a short rasp of laughter and shakes his head again.

“You are.”

“All right.”

They sit in silence then, and Graves stretches his leg out beneath the bar, feeling the muscle flex more easily. The potion’s effects are as potent as ever, and already he can feel the ache in his skull melting away to nothing. Ah, bottled magic. Wondrous effects all for the small price of your full dependence on them. He thinks about what small amounts he’d achieved already today with Ibrahim. The walking, that endless tramping around Central Park, building back up his strength and resilience the hard way. The non-magical way. The way the healers had warned him he’d need to use if he didn’t want to risk becoming addicted to the potions they nonetheless hand out to him like poisonous candy.

The thought of it, of a life led from behind a desk, restricted field work for the rest of his career because you can’t have an auror on a job that won’t take risks for fear of getting cut off without his supply. The thought of it makes him shake with a cold dread, a sickness in the pit of his stomach that makes him think he’ll puke back up the whisky and the potion alike. Life chained to his healing potions - Merlin, it would kill him faster than a killing curse.

He is, he is aware, at risk of becoming maudlin.

Hence the dinner out. Graves can cook, Ibrahim’s not bad himself if you’re open to eating round the occasional uncooked bit, but his second has decided that it’s time for Graves to reemerge into society and rejoin New York’s wizarding social scene. A fine thing that, considering Graves has spent his life doing his utmost to avoid being part of it in the first place. And so here they are, one man sipping tea, the other shamed into not simply ordering a continual flow of whisky to survive, in a quiet and rather private little speakeasy they’ve been known to frequent over the years. To be fair, Graves does like it here. No-one tries to talk to him, and that, as far as he’s concerned, is by far the most important selling point of the place.

Graves is just considering the merits of sticking it to Ismail and ordering an entire bottle of the good stuff, just to see the disapproval on his face, when he notices movement. A career spent tracking and watching and mistrusting everyone around him has led Graves to possess a finely-honed set of observational skills, and it’s his habit to monitor a room’s occupants regardless of where he is. Such deeply ingrained suspicion as his is so habitual to him that he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. And so, even when Ismail deliberately leans back, blocking his view of the door, Graves is already tilting his head round his friend’s shoulder to see who’s approaching.

“Good evening, Mr Ismail, and, oh-! Mr Graves!”

 _Newton Scamander._ Graves feels his eyes narrowing in suspicion. This is entirely unexpected, and highly unlikely.

“Mr Scamander!” Ismail proclaims, and the good cheer in his voice puts Graves immediately on edge. Every single one of his impending danger senses are tingling as Ismail gets up to welcome the other man. Scamander, distracted by Ismail grasping his hand in a firm shake, only has time to glance briefly at Graves and then away. He looks just as surprised to see Graves as Graves is to see him.

“Glad you could make it!” Ismail says, and Graves’ eyebrows rise. So this was pre-planned was it? He hadn’t been aware of any  invitation. “Here, I’ll budge over. You sit between us.”

He’s brought the case, Graves notices, as Scamander gives him a shy smile, and hesitantly offers his hand to be shaken. Graves can’t catch Ismail’s eye over the man’s shoulder, as he reaches out to grasp Scamander’s hand in his own. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon, Mr Scamander,” he says pointedly in Ismail’s direction. Scamander’s face immediately colours a deep shade of red, and Graves feels suddenly like an ass. That may have been a bit unnecessary. To cover his discomfort, he waves over the barman. “What can I get you?”

“Oh, um, just uh, wine please. Red. I mean, if they’re serving here?”

Graves nods and the barman moves off to fetch the order. “We don’t adhere to the same restrictions as the no-majs,” he says.

“Ah right, yes, of course. I wasn’t entirely sure. Uhm, and it’s Newt really, please.”

“Newt then,” Graves says, smiling politely.

“And please,” Ismail says over Newt’s shoulder. “Ibrahim and Percival, though you can call him whatever you want really. Old bastard works just as well.”

Graves eyes Ismail coolly, as Newt gives a nervous chuckle. “Don’t listen to him, he’s older than I am.”  
  
“Lies,” Ismail murmurs, taking up his pipe again. “Absolute slander. You found it okay then, Newt?”

Newt, reaching for the wine the barman has brought for him, almost jumps at the question, but nods hurriedly. “Uh, yes. I took the streetcar again. Quite helpful those things.”

“You’ll soon know your way around enough to apparate,” Ismail says.

Graves watches his old friend setting Newt at ease through easy banter and gentle questions, noting how Newt chooses to focus on him almost entirely. Ismail is clearly the safer option in this situation, and Graves finds himself slightly offended by that. _He’s_ not the one that dragged Newt out here tonight apparently without any warning there’d be extra company. After this morning he’d rather thought the man was about ready to crawl through the floorboards to escape him. Which, well, Graves supposes would be the reason his presence is getting a less than enthusiastic response.

Maybe Graves should take himself off home and leave them to it, because that way Scamander could relax, and whatever the hell it is Ismail’s playing at this time will be foiled. Mind you, that would mean leaving Newt in Ismail’s company, and considering the reason the man’s in New York in the first place Graves isn’t sure he trusts Ismail not to do something all of them are going to regret. He’s scowling at the thought of it when Newt looks in his direction and catches his eye. The man instantly freezes at his expression, then looks quickly away, and Graves could kick himself. He used to be so good at this kind of thing.

“So what brings you out tonight, Newt?” Graves asks, clearing away his frown and making a brave attempt to repair the situation.

“Ah,” Newt hesitates, and Graves can practically see the thoughts running through his head. Embarrassment, awkwardness, and a not unreasonable amount of wariness too. That last strikes Graves particularly sharply, and suddenly, despite the potion, he feels tired.

“Well, Mr Ismail-, _Ibrahim_ invited me to, uh, well...” Newt trails off, uncertain. It would appear Graves isn’t the only one not sure why he’s here tonight.

“Well,” Graves repeats softly, staring at Ibrahim who ignores him magnificently. It’s not that he minds seeing Scamander again, and he does find the man strangely charming in an odd, somewhat earnest way. He’s such a far cry from the cynical perps and even more cynical aurors that normally surround Graves. The man has a gentleness to him that makes Graves feel cold souled and hard, no matter how he tries to moderate his tone and body language around him. That having been said, Graves is no fool, and he knows when he’s being played, even if it’s Ismail doing the playing. _Especially_ when it’s Ismail.

“Actually,” Ismail says suddenly, setting down his pipe and turning on his bar stool. “I did have something of an ulterior motive for bringing you here tonight.”

Graves feels his blood run cold as Ismail reaches into his jacket to pull out a small notepad. They haven’t spoken of the foolish letter that he’d written to Newt since Graves had reprimanded him for it. Closest friend and confidant or not, he’d had no right to go out and do such a thing. But that’s the thing with Ismail, once he gets an idea in his head he’s like a Crup with a rat, always chasing it down, never letting go. Graves eyes the notepad with mounting concern, apprehension growing as Ismail continues not to meet his eyes. _Do_ not _do this,_ he thinks. _Ibrahim, I will end you if you tell him anything else about what happened._

“I have a case I thought you might be able to advise on,” Ismail continues mildly, still refusing to meet Graves’ eyes. Graves, who hasn’t felt this close to _Imperio-_ ing someone to silence in his entire life. It might even be worth it. Ismail flips open his notepad and says, “I think someone’s trafficking beasts you see.”

“Oh?” says Newt, attention suddenly fixed on the auror. Ismail does glance up at Graves then, a split-second instant in which he reads Graves’ expression, notes the silent fury and smiles just slightly in amusement before he looks away again. _The Killing Curse is also an option,_ Graves thinks.

Ismail looks at his notes, then nods. “Mhm. Someone’s selling healing potions on the black market and I’m very interested in how they’re making them. I think they have something exotic, a beast, and I’d like you to assist me in identifying what it is.”

“You don’t have any idea at all what the beast might be?” Newt asks.

“No, that’s where you come in,” Ismail says. “You are the world famous expert!”

“Well, I can certainly take a look for you,” Newt says doubtfully. “Might it not simply be Mandrake root…?”

“Oh no,” Ismail shakes his head. “Forensics would recognise that. So far we’ve not been able to identify the exact ingredients, but it’s potent, as are the side-effects.” He glances around. “Best not discussed here. Perhaps you’d drop in to HQ tomorrow morning and we could go over the details…? There would, of course, be compensation, particularly as we would need to call on your expert advice while handling and rehoming any beast that was subsequently confiscated...”

It’s only long years of finely honed self-control that keep Graves from rolling his eyes at Ismail’s ridiculous show of blatant enticement, but Newt, predictably, lights up with eagerness at the thought of being allowed to take over a beast rescue from the well-meaning but ultimately - in his opinion - clearly completely unqualified local authorities. There are legends of magical folk that can kill with a single look, and although Graves’ glare cannot quite manage that level of potency, he nonetheless fills it with all the disgust he can possibly manage, as Ismail puts on a great show of gratitude for Newt’s selfless enthusiasm.

“And you’ve had this approved, have you?” Graves asks drily, thinking of Seraphina Picquery and her deep dislike of Scamander and his beasts. Foiling the greatest dark wizard to ever have lived only granted Newt enough credit with her to get him out of the city not in chains the last time he was here, though her metaphorical boot had been hovering close to his arse the entire time. Still, that having been said, Newt is _very_ famous now, and Graves knows full well that means Picquery will be treading with extreme political caution around him right now.

Ismail doesn’t skip a beat. “Of course,” he replies. “Funding for a suitable consultant has already been procured.”

Newt is looking between the two of them uneasily, clearly feeling both metaphorically and quite literally caught in the middle. “I’ll bet it has,” Graves replies, his tone mild but his eyes boring holes in his damnable second’s skull.

“So...do you have any suspicions what the beast might be?” Newt asks, clearly desperate to distract them from their private feud.

“I’m thinking a unicorn,” Ismail replies.

“A unicorn! In New York! Where on earth are they keeping it? They can’t be- unicorns are very difficult to care for, you know, they only thrive in the wild.”

“And that’s where you’ll come in,” Ismail replies soothingly.   

Newt’s face has creased into a frown, and Graves stares at him. The man seems genuinely and deeply upset by the very thought of a unicorn in New York, and Graves is forced to reevaluate yet again his take on him. There’s a gentleness to Newt that’s readily apparent, but there’s also the passionate drive so particular to scholars and enthusiasts, and beneath it must be the steel that kept the man alive in the face of a raging Obscurial and the most dangerous dark wizard in the world. Having never seen it first hand, Graves finds himself suddenly curious to see how that steel might manifest itself.

“We don’t have any leads yet,” Graves offers quietly. He is of course aware of this case of Ismail’s, but he’s not involved on a deeper level than that of overseer. “And it will take time to do this properly. If we don’t work within the framework of the law then we jeopardize the outcome, and risk criminals walking free when we could have had them taken off the streets and punished.”

Newt looks up at him from beneath his tangle of a fringe and nods. “I know that, Mr Graves,” he replies, just as quietly. “I don’t intend to do anything that will bring your department into disrepute, or risk any magical beast being left open to further abuse. I’ll work within the law, I am quite capable of that, and have done so on many occasions.”

Graves finds himself at a loss for words. The forthright seriousness of that speech has quite taken him off guard, and he raises his eyebrows. “Well, that’s good,” he offers, somewhat lamely.

Suddenly, there’s a faint tinkling of bells, and Ismail begins to dig through his pockets. “Oh my,” he says, looking down at a small coin chiming and vibrating in his palm. “I must apologise, gentlemen, I’m being summoned back to work.”

“The case?” Newt asks, with interest.

“Oh no, no. Another case, quite unrelated, I assure you,” Ismail says. “I’m very sorry to do this, but I’m afraid I must leave you both. Please, enjoy dinner here tonight, and try the lamb, it’s truly spectacular.”

Graves is staring at Ismail over Newt’s shoulder, eyes narrowed dangerously in suspicion. “Ismail-”

“See you tomorrow morning, Newt! 9am! Be there sharp!” Ismail tucks his pipe into his pocket, and gives them both a cheerful wave with his notepad. Then with one last, “Terribly sorry,” at them both, he’s summoning his coat from the rack by the door, and making a swift and unstoppable exit, smiling like the devil at Graves as he does so. The two of them are left staring after him, Newt looking rather gobsmacked, and Graves with thinned lips and gritted teeth.

“...is he always like this?” Newt asks dazedly.

Graves just sighs. Really, he should have seen this coming, and short of gluing the man to his seat, tackling him bodily, or throwing a full body bind at him there probably wasn’t a great deal either of them could have done to stop him. It leaves Graves in the rather unenviable position of a dinner date that feels thoroughly saddled by him, and who would probably rather be anywhere else at all than scraping through an evening with only him for company. “Do you still want dinner?” he asks, and the question comes out somewhat more gruffly than he’d intended.

Newt, for his part, seems to consider his offer carefully, and Graves watches the man actually bite his lip in apparent consternation. “Why not?” Newt says eventually. “I mean, I’m still rather hungry...aren’t you?”

The look he gives Graves is both uncertain and, if Percival didn’t know better, even somewhat calculating. _Are you checking me out, Scamander?_ he thinks. _Trying to get a read on me? Not terribly subtle, are you?_ Long enforced habit born of a career forged in the political vipers’ pit of MACUSA makes Graves blank his expression back to neutral politeness, and he watches the other man struggle to read him. It may be a little unfair of Graves to do so, but then he’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to be making of this evening.  

On the other hand, what’s done is done, and, whatever ulterior motive Ismail truly has be damned, he does rather wonder if Newt would be open to discussing his work a little more. Specifically the inside of that case of his. It’s been a very long time since Graves found himself impressed by anything that wasn’t someone’s depressingly creative criminal intent, and the reactions he’d experienced both times Newt had invited him down into his secret world had left Graves feeling both invigorated and, although he hates to admit it, somewhat feeling his age _._ The stark difference between his life here and the life Newt leads down in his case had grabbed a hold of Graves and shaken his certainty quite thoroughly. It’s been so very, very long since anything made his curiosity sing like it used to as a young man.

So he says, “Yes, actually. No need to waste an evening on someone else’s misfortune. If you’re hungry now, they have a separate dining area through there.”

Newt agrees, and then, case in one hand, wine in the other, heads for the small archway through to the next room. Graves resists the urge to order another whisky, opting for mental dexterity in the face of entertaining a still potentially unenthusiastic dinner companion, and follows him.

  


*

  


The back room of the Bathtub Brew is one long, narrow rectangle divided into private booths along the back wall. The dim lighting errs on the side of cozy privacy, and along with the floor to ceiling dividers between tables, Graves has always rather liked the somewhat clandestine feel it gives dining here. Newt slips his case below the table, and Graves takes a seat opposite him.

Graves had expected silence at first, and had been running over a few topics he could use as openers, when Newt surprises him.

“I’m sorry, Mr Graves. I really didn’t expect to see you tonight, I had no idea it would be anyone other than Mr Ismail-”

Graves holds up a hand, letting his eyes drift closed as he shakes his head. Newt falls silent immediately, so sharply that Graves looks at him in some concern. The man looks quite shaken, and appears to be doing his utmost to hide the fact. “Are you all right?” he asks, somewhat thrown by the reaction.

“I’m sorry, you- I just, it’s nothing. I uh, I was saying I didn’t mean to impose.”

There’s a tense silence that stretches just beyond the limits of acceptable, as understanding dawns.

“I reminded you of him,” Graves says softly.

“No! I just-...”

But I did, thinks Graves. I can read it in your face. I can see the fear in your eyes, when you’ll let me see them, that is. He leans back against the wall of the booth, and breathes out slowly. This is how it’s going to be for the rest of his life, isn’t it? People are always going to look at him and wonder, or look at him and _remember._ And there are many things about this man’s encounter with Grindelwald, wearing Graves’ face, that he will want to forget.

“I’m sorry,” Newt leans forward suddenly, intently. “Please, Mr Graves, don’t misunderstand me. I know what’s real and what’s not, I wasn’t thinking that. I was thinking that sometimes, very occasionally, Grindelwald copied your body language very well. That’s all. I was thinking I’m glad he’s gone, and that you’re back.”

Honestly, Graves can’t tell if he’s lying. He stares into Newt’s eyes and there’s nothing there of deceit. Graves considers himself good at reading people, at understanding their motivations, and picking out their tells. He’s only been wrong once. Just the once. Just the worst case of once in a blue moon. How many blue moons are there?

“Mr Graves?” Newt whispers.

“Please, if we are to do this,” Graves says. “It’s Percival.”

He is proud that his voice is steady. Newt nods, slowly, but he doesn’t say anything else. Their server arrives then, a young man in the kind of suit that might be considered “alternative” to the youth, and Graves is the one that looks away first to accept the menus he holds out.

Of course, it’s possible to hide behind a menu in the age-old tradition of uncertain people everywhere, and Graves forces himself to hold it low instead. Newt has set his flat on the table and is peering intently at the offerings. Graves finds himself watching him over the edge of his menu, gauging his level of discomfort. It’s almost surprising how rapidly the man has accepted his presence, not relaxed for sure, they’re hardly friends after all, but come to some kind of decision internally to go with whatever the evening brings. Perhaps, Graves thinks, this will not be such a trial after all.

In the end they make small talk about the choice of food, and, once they’ve ordered, Graves declares the place relatively good for cooking speedily. They spell the food of course, he says, uncertain if Newt buys into the current craze for hand-cooking. Graves is no cheat when it comes to preparing a meal, primarily because he lacks the interest to hone his cookery spells to any great extent, but also because setting down to cook a meal by hand brings a nice close to a day, so he thinks. You can always tell the difference, he says, offering a brief smile.

Newt nods along to all of this, and Graves wonders if the man thinks he’s an idiot. Cooking. Mercy Lewis, who _cares?_

“So, how’s the little guy?” he asks, changing the subject. “The Niffler.”

This is clearly the wrong choice of topic, for Newt’s expression freezes, and he replies immediately, “Still in my case. Absolutely secure.”

“Ah, hm,” Graves knows his smile must look forced. “Of course.”

That kills the conversation quite dead, and Graves draws out the sipping of his water as though he’s savouring some kind of fine wine. The question about the Niffler had been his opening gambit in an attempt to draw Newt further on the topic of his case, but of course the man will be reluctant to discuss the matter. The case is his most prized treasure, and he’ll guard it as carefully as a dragon its hoard. Probably still thinks they’re out to confiscate it, Graves muses. Unlikely at this point. For all the heavy breathing scrutiny Picquery wants him put under, there are international relations to bear in mind, and Newt is responsible for bringing down the most famous terrorist of a generation.

“New York’s nice,” Newt says suddenly. “Busy. But nice. I’m not really sure where to go really, but I had a small wander around this afternoon.”

This is an olive branch, Graves realises, and he reaches for it gratefully. They chat more or less easily then, until the food comes and then as they eat, about the places in the city that Newt might visit. Graves is forced into that strange situation of re-examining his lifelong home from the perspective of a visitor, seeing as someone unfamiliar with its streets and the ebb and flow of its rhythms must do. He offers speakeasies and restaurants, most of which he has no experience of save to say that they don’t cross his desk in crime reports but which he knows his aurors often frequent. There’s a dual purpose to his recommending those of course; they’re quiet and they’re likely to contain his people should Newt suffer any further unfortunate beast-related complications. Or complications in general. He is unlikely to find disgruntled supporters of Grindelwald, eager to avenge their deranged master, in the places that Graves’ aurors drink.

As for entertainment, on this subject Graves is vague. There are a handful of magical dance halls, and a few places where one might go to gamble, but neither of these sports are of much interest to him. Newt doesn’t seem concerned by his lack of detail on this matter, and asks instead where he might find certain stockists of magical goods. Graves resists the temptation to pry, and provides to the best of his knowledge, the places that he knows to be of good repute.

The server comes and clears their plates away, and they are both settling back with a far more relaxed attitude to each other’s company when Newt pulls a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket.

“I don’t suppose you could direct me to here, could you?”

Graves takes the folded paper and reads the header with interest. “Your book distributor?”

“Ah, yes. For North America anyway,” Newt says, somewhat shyly. “Uhm, I have a book signing there tomorrow, so I need to find the place.”

“A signing, of course.” The other reason Newt Scamander is back in New York, for those occasions he’s not on fool errands for Ismail that is. Graves recognises the location easily enough, since it lies partway between the Brew and his own house.

“It’s not till the evening, but it does mean I have to sit down and sign things all afternoon.”

“Hard life,” Graves smiles.

Newt laughs, and shrugs. “It gives me time to think about the signing in the evening.”

“Not a good thing?” Graves guesses, narrowing his eyes in query.

“Well, it’s not that I mind talking to people about the book, or my travels, but I’d rather they asked about the beasts. People ask some very strange questions sometimes.”

Graves can imagine. Newt clearly doesn’t fully appreciate just how unusual he - or his life - is to the average witch or wizard. Not every wizard gets to go chasing off across the globe in search of mystery and mayhem. After all, the average person sees only the magic they can cast themselves. He wonders what constitutes a ‘very strange question’ and if it would be entirely out of line for him to ask. Probably, considering how shy of his privacy the man is.

Graves leans back against the wall of the booth and stretches his leg out under the table. Potion or not he can feel the ache that runs from his flank to his knee creeping back in. It’s a burn in the muscle that will soon enough lead to a cramping that’ll keep him up half the night, or at least it would have had Newt not presented him with that Salamander balm of his. Now Graves cannot use that excuse for his lack of sleeping, not even to himself.

“Why don’t I show you?” he says. “Then you can apparate there tomorrow.”

Newt seems surprised. “Oh, that would be very kind of you. I mean, don’t go out of your way on my behalf, it’s really not necessary.”

Graves waves his words away. “It’s on my way home. A twenty minute walk.” Thirty perhaps, if he needs to not be limping by the end of it.

Newt seems genuinely surprised by the offer, but not, Graves thinks, altogether put off by it. This is somewhat of a victory considering how poorly he had reacted to Graves not two days ago, and how eagerly he’d fled the scene this morning. Of course, one instance had required Graves to catalogue his most precious beasts in the privacy of his travelling home, and the other, well, Graves should feel worse about the Niffler incident of this morning, but honestly he’d been so-. Well. What had he been? He’s not sure he wants to think about it, to dissect the issue too closely seems unwise. He suspects that his conclusions might not stand up to interrogation by either common or good sense.

“Shall we?” he asks.

They take care of the bill. Graves judges it unwise to offer to pay, wary of offending the man’s pride, and not entirely sure of the etiquette of it all. He and Ismail have a back and forth routine for the paying of bills, and had he invited Newt here tonight he would simply have settled the bill without a second thought. However he and Newt are not quite friends, this is not really a formal dinner, and it most certainly is not a date of any kind. Graves keeps his face neutral, and prays to Merlin that his caution hasn’t come across as stinginess.  

It’s close to ten when they leave the Brew and head back. The streets of New York are still alive with people, no-majs and magical folk alike heading out to dance and play for the evening. The city never seems to sleep, and as the years go by it gathers to itself an ever more frantic energy. Times are good, and they are wild, and for now people will dance. Graves tilts his head back to breathe in the night air and is glad of the heating charms in his coat. He tosses his scarf another length around his neck and wonders if it’s time to bring the heavier one out of storage. November is sliding swiftly into December, and there will be snow this year, he can feel it coming.

He takes Newt the route that keeps to the main roads, ignoring the alleys and back ways he would normally have walked. Graves knows this part of the city well, having ensured that he can walk every street in the vicinity of his house and find his way home. It’s important to him to have that knowledge. Scamander though, he will appreciate the bright lights and fancy store fronts of this route, and Graves watches his attention be drawn by the flicker of lights in store windows, and the movement of beautifully dressed people in the restaurants they pass.

“Did you find your chain in the end?” Newt asks suddenly, and Graves looks at him sharply. The man’s face is a picture of innocent curiosity, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets against the chill. Graves blinks, and looks away.

“No, I didn’t. It’s gone.” Graves shakes his head, and scrambles for something to say. Something to distract Newt from the topic. He doesn’t want to talk about the chain. He doesn’t want to admit that it’s still missing, or that he’d hoped so hard that the Niffler had been the one to take it, or that its loss is eating at him so greatly. “I suppose I dropped it.”

“Hm,” Newt replies. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

“Very kind.”

Graves can sense that Newt has picked up on his tension, and can see how the man has deliberately turned his head away to look at the buildings again, giving him space to sort himself out. The frustration of being so readily transparent to him makes Graves grit his teeth. There is something about Scamander that makes him feel like a clumsy fool, tongue-tied and idiotic. He gets the distinct impression that, despite his earlier dismissal of the man’s attempts, Newt does in fact have a solid read on him. The thought both alarms and intrigues him.

He’s so taken up with his thoughts that it’s actually Newt that spots the book shop first. “Ah, that’s it. I recognise the sign from his letterhead.”

Graves grunts an affirmative, and then comes to a halt, pausing to allow Newt to look around and familiarise himself with the area sufficiently for a successful apparition back. “Most people use the alley there when they come here.” He nods to a narrow passage, and a small bronze plaque attached high up the wall and charmed with disinclinations to keep it out of line of no-maj sight, that indicates the presence of a building of magical nature in the vicinity.  

He watches as Newt goes up to the window and holds a hand up to the glass to peer inside. He’s a strange man, a little unkempt even dressed up smartly for dinner as he is. The battered case is still clutched tightly in one hand, worn around the edges in the most interesting of ways, rather like the man himself, Graves thinks. He tilts his head, almost in amusement at his own thoughts, and shifts a little uncomfortably. Damned leg is really playing up now, but he finds that he’s in no hurry to push the evening to a close. Perhaps they ought to have stayed longer in the Brew, maybe he could have moved them to a corner table back in the bar, spoken a little more to Newt about his work. He’s easy enough to move to enthusiasm if you pick your topics carefully enough.

Then again, the man clearly has a long day ahead of him tomorrow. It would have been rude for Percival to insist on monopolising his time, particularly as he’d already kept him through a dinner Newt hadn’t even signed up for in the first place. Perhaps it’s that English politeness of his that’s already allowed Graves to lean so much on his patience without repercussion. Still though, the night is long, and the house will be cold and dark. Morgana knows where Ismail has truly run off to, and Graves has too much pride to contact him and find out. It would seem far too much like neediness. And besides, he’s still angry with that bastard.

Newt turns back to him and smiles. It’s a sweet expression, and Graves is pleased somehow to find that it contains no trace of his earlier discomfort. Perhaps he hasn’t given quite as poor a show tonight as he’d feared. Or maybe Newt is simply forgiving and polite. Whatever it is, Graves feels a sudden, selfish urge to take advantage of it.

“Do you want coffee?” he asks abruptly, and then could kick himself for it. Newt’s face has frozen in surprise. Hardly the desired response, and Graves winces, ready to offer the other man an escape route. “It’s late, I know.”

It’s not late, not even for polite Englishmen, and Newt seems caught between some emotion Graves can’t identify and a clear desire not to offend. Graves draws himself up with a frown, and is about to assure him that it was nothing but a passing thought, when Newt says, “Yes, of course. That would be lovely.”

Beaten to the punch line, Graves closes his mouth, and nods. “All right then. You recall the area? There’s a safe apparition point on, actually...would you rather side-along?”

For a second he worries that he’s offended the man, but all he intends is to make it easier for him. He recalls that Newt had mentioned finding his house by streetcar and a map, and he can hardly expect the man to have memorised apparition points to get back there. Or maybe he’s making an unfair assumption. The man is a seasoned traveller after all, and there are hardly streetcars in the deepest jungles. Graves feels frozen by apprehension, and he knows that he must look stiff and awkward. But Newt nods readily enough, and after a second’s hesitation reaches out and places his palm lightly on Graves’ shoulder.

With a snap of air and coiled movement, they are away into the night.

  


*

 

Graves’ house is still and silent. Newt sits comfortably in one of the two armchairs in the sitting room where he’d examined Mr Graves this morning and stares into the fire. The flames are roaring to themselves, and the room is dimly lit by a pair of candelabra that Graves had waved into light before he’d vanished to fetch the promised coffee. It feels like a lifetime ago that Newt had knelt here to examine him, and honestly he’d never expected to return, had hardly dared hope that he’d get away with not seeing Graves again in his life, or alternatively having the man suffer his presence. Fate is fickle though, and co-incidence can be unkind, and here he is, sitting across from the man himself, in his echoingly empty house, far too big for just the one man alone, a cup of bitter coffee in his hands and nothing but the silence of the house around them.

Newt doesn’t really know why he’s back here again, but he’s also not completely incapable of reading human intent. It hadn’t taken him long to realise that Ismail’s earlier departure had been entirely intentional; Graves’ reaction alone had been enough to tip him off to the fact. A set-up then, one that had drawn Newt inexorably closer to understanding the true nature of Ismail’s original request for help. Newt is certain now that the “friend in need” to which Ismail’s original letter had referred, is in some way, Percival Graves. How much of that letter was a ruse simply to get in touch with him and draw him to New York he has no idea. Ismail had specifically mentioned a magical experiment gone wrong, and a resultant case of severe memory loss, but looking at Graves now, having spent quite some time talking to him in fact, Newt would not have thought it possible. Surely, had the situation been quite so dire, MACUSA would not have so readily allowed the man to continue working.

Graves is sitting in the armchair across from Newt, and he too is staring into the flames as though they have personally offended him. Newt can’t quite work out where he stands with the man. Clearly, Graves had been unaware of Ismail’s plans to bring them both together this evening and then take a sharp exit stage left, but he’d offered to sit for dinner anyway, and Newt hadn’t been able to tell if the offer had been serious or simply a serious attempt to frighten him off. Either way, he had been hungry and also, if he has to admit it, just a little bit angry at the turn of events, though of course he’d never show it. Being dumped into surprise social situations with extremely powerful and politically influential aurors is hardly Newt’s idea of a relaxing evening.

On the other hand, despite his stern and somewhat forbidding nature, Graves _is_ a man of great political influence in his own right, and as such has all the social graces that Newt is fully aware that he himself lacks. Graves had been pleasant enough throughout the meal, even if he had strayed curiously close to another grilling regarding the contents of Newt’s case. Newt takes a self-congratulatory sip of bitter - yet undoubtedly expensive - coffee, and applauds his own success in heading off _that_ line of conversation. No such luck getting through the rest of the meal unscathed however.

There had been an instant, just the one, where Graves had mirrored with an accuracy that had sent a spear of ice through every one of his limbs, precisely the movement of dismissal that Grindelwald had used on Newt back in that neverending moment of horror down in the black and white darkness of MACUSA’s interrogation chambers. There is something darkly powerful about Graves, a confidence and a competence that Newt understands is attractive. Mostly he finds the man simply and plainly  intimidating, but very occasionally there’s a tilt to his head, or a flick of his fingers, that’s pure Grindelwald. Pure _Graves_ he means. Sometimes the two versions - one dark and cruel, the other dark and forbidding, superimpose upon one another, their interpretations of the entity that is Graves meeting in the middle to make a trigger for memories that have no place in the current situation.

It’s not that Newt thinks Graves is anything like the mad fanatic that seeks to burn half the world, he knows full well that the two are separate entities with entirely different motivations. One to destroy, the other to protect. Yet he still dreams of the death chamber some nights, and he thinks he’ll carry the horror of it with him for the rest of his life.

And then there is this. This strange, half-awkward relationship of coincidence and trickery they have fallen into. Newt had expected an evening of Ismail’s pleasant but ultimately uncomfortably beseeching company, and had received instead a personal dinner outing with MACUSA’s own Director of Magical Security. And the thing is, it hadn’t even been unpleasant. Occasionally unnerving, but ultimately enjoyable. Graves can talk fluently and lightly on several subjects when he chooses to, and in such a way that Newt had felt himself drawn into the conversation, his opinion both valued and sought after. The small, cynical part of him suggests that this isn’t exactly unexpected from a man whose career is so closely tied to politics, but in truth Newt quite honestly suspects that Percival Graves is simply a good man. Especially when he relaxes.

Now however they sit in silence. Newt had accepted the offer of coffee almost out of shock, the words tumbling from his mouth before he had fully processed the consequence of them. Some stupid part of his brain had expected they would return to the Brew, or go to a coffee house, but Graves’ implication of a far more personal invite had quickly become apparent, and the resultant embarrassment for the both of them were he to suddenly back out would have been unbearable. And so here they are.

They have discussed quite politely the strength of the coffee, the warmth of the fire in the face of the coming winter - it will snow this year Graves had said with all the confidence of a trained tempestarii, and for all Newt knows perhaps he is - and now they have lapsed into a somewhat comfortable silence. Or it may be a strained one, Newt’s not entirely sure. He peeks sideways at Graves, to find the man still glaring into the flames, and wonders what he’s thinking.

In a strange way that Newt doesn’t quite understand, Graves appears to have lost his nerve. It’s as though he’s not comfortable in his own home, and Newt can’t decide if it’s because of his presence, or if it’s something to do with the house itself. Perhaps this is a more true indication of Graves’ mannerisms when he’s out of sight of the public eye, but then again, Newt doesn’t believe so. He certainly hadn’t been this way this morning. This morning he’d seemed to almost enjoy himself, despite the havoc the Niffler had caused. There’s another small seed of suspicion growing in Newt’s mind now that he’s had the day to process events, but it’s not one he’s willing to confront until he’s entirely certain. His beasts mean far too much to him to risk any kind of danger to them, even if it be the mildest disapproval where such a thing could have been avoided.

On top of this, Newt wants to ask where everyone else is. He doesn’t know anything of the Graves family, beyond a very vague recollection of a statue in the Woolworth building, and some barely remembered, skimmed-over teachings back in his Hogwarts days before he hastily dropped any subjects not to do with magical beasts. Aurors all the way back is how he thinks it is. Surely though, surely the man doesn’t live here in this enormous house all on his own? Newt had taken the opportunity to glance around as they’d arrived, and he’d not seen anything to indicate the presence of a woman. The shoes in the closet are all masculine in style and size, the coats too few in number to be for anything but one person. There are no toys in the corner and therefore no children, no magazines to indicate another person’s interests, no women’s items at all. Perhaps, considering the events of last year, this is not entirely unexpected. It all feels a little sad though to him. Lonely, even.

The flickering light of the fire makes Graves’ face into a grimace of leaping shadows, carving the lines around his mouth deeper than they are. His eyes are very dark in the reflected glow of the flames, and once more Newt is struck by how truly and deeply tired the other man looks. _When did you last sleep?_ Newt wonders. _Was it last night, or the night before?_ He recognises the look in Graves’ eyes - some might call it stubborn resistance, a refusal to be beaten, but Newt knows better. He knows pure exhaustion when he sees it.

“Will you be there tomorrow?” he asks.

Graves’ eyes flick across to meet his own, and he blinks, broken out of his reverie. “The office? Yes.”

Newt nods. “I wondered if you’d be involved in this trafficking case is all.” He suspects the answer to that, now that Ismail has pulled Newt into it too, will be a resounding _yes._

“Do you want me to be?” Graves is looking at him in curiosity, chin now resting against the curl of his fingers. Newt hadn’t expected to be asked this, having only raised the query as a way of ascertaining if Graves has somehow been put on leave of some kind. A sickness leave perhaps. He can feel his face flush at the question, and hopes the firelight hides it. He’s not even sure why the turnaround of the query flusters him quite so much..

“I, well, I just assumed you… well, I don’t know really. Sorry, I know you must have other work.”

 _Fool_ , Newt thinks to himself. _Stumbling, graceless idiot._

Graves shrugs with one shoulder, but doesn’t take his eyes from Newt. It’s like being caught beneath the gaze of a lazy predator, and Newt has to fight not to squirm in embarrassment. Men like Graves, with their easy confidence and offhand grace always make him feel like such a bumbling idiot. “I’ll check in with you during the day. There’s probably a few procedural things need going over. Forms to be stamped and the like.”

Newt realises after a second that last had been a joke, and he laughs, too late to be anything but awkward. They lapse into silence again, and Newt wonders if he’s come across badly. Mostly he just accepts this as a fact of life - people find him awkward and a little odd, but he doesn’t mind that. His beasts never take offence to him, and that’s all that matters. With Graves though, Newt finds himself constantly running to catch up with what little poise he might have, ever stumbling over his own social inadequacy. He wonders what Graves will say to Ismail tomorrow, if perhaps they’ll share an amused but tolerant smile over the failings of lesser wizards. He stares down into his coffee mug and frowns at the ripple of black liquid.

“I’ll drop by,” Graves says softly. “To make sure everything’s in order.”

Newt looks up at him, and is surprised by the look of concern on Graves’ face. It’s mild, shaded in with caution, as though he’s ready to be amused by some joke Newt hasn’t yet revealed. Something about it makes Newt feel quite ashamed suddenly, for thinking that Graves might be snide behind his back when the man is clearly of too fine a character for that. Perhaps Newt has been mixing him up with Grindelwald more than he’d realised.

“I’d like that, Mr Graves,” he replies, and is surprised to find that he would. He _would_ like to talk to this man again, to have him drop by and spare some of his precious time. To be able to relax in his company, to see him enough that it would be possible to do so with ease. That would be very… _nice._

Graves smiles, a little crookedly. “Percival,” he says. “Please.”

Newt nods, but holds his tongue, unwilling to reply with anything that might risk sounding foolish. Graves continues to watch him, and his expression of concern has faded into something more relaxed, closer to contentment. He’s no less intimidating for it, and Newt suddenly remembers watching Tina chase after his approval a year ago, or at least, what she thought was his approval. Percival Graves simply exists and people are drawn in by him, by his charm and his power, and his expectation of excellence. It’s a curious thing, this desire of so many to be more, to be better because of one person’s opinion. Normally, this is a game that Newt refuses to play, but here, now, he can fully understand why people do.

He glances up at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s getting late, I really ought to be off.”

It’s not even an excuse, for it’s close to midnight. Graves looks up at the time, and for a second seems about to say something, then the moment is gone and he nods his acceptance.

Newt walks home beneath the midnight lamps of the city that never sleeps, and thinks back over the evening with a curious warmth. Percival Graves is perhaps not quite the monster of authoritarian disapproval Newt had suspected him of being, at least not when he’s off the clock. Newt is still no closer to understanding how or why he’s been brought here to help the man, but he is now entirely certain that it’s the true reason for Ismail’s summons and his subsequent escapades. Regardless of that man’s part in all this, Newt finds himself both intrigued and strangely drawn by the mystery.

If he has been brought here to help Percival Graves, then he does not, as yet, know how he’s to go about doing so. Nonetheless, as he makes his way back to his hotel, slipping between groups of late night revellers, he resolves most solemnly that he will.

  


*

 

“God, _Merlin,_ ugh-!”

Newt gags, and Ismail looks at him with concern. “Are you going to throw up..?” he asks, half-reaching for a waste-paper basket.

“No, no, but bloody hell I feel like I could, and that was just a sniff! Do people actually drink these?”

Ismail leans back in his chair and shrugs. “If someone is desperate for a cure,” he says softly. “They are likely to do anything.”

Newt hastily screws the top back on the foul-smelling potion and puts it back in the small box on Ismail’s desk. It’s 9.25 on the morning of the next day, and he’s already been shown around the most important parts of the Major Crimes desk, namely their private canteen, the box the cookies live in, and the nearest set of toilets. Now he sits in Ismail’s office and examines the evidence from the trafficking case he’s been invited to consult on. Somewhat like Graves’ office, Ismail’s own is filled with magical paraphernalia, but where Graves’ shelves are neat and ordered, Ismail’s are cluttered. Potions equipment is piled haphazardly on top of books; racks of bottles and vials, some labelled, some not, are stood in layered rows and balanced precariously one atop the other. There are plants hanging down from the upper shelves and diagrams tacked to the doors of the cabinets. It is a glorious, fascinating mess, and immediately Newt had felt at home.

“You’re forensics then?” he’d asked, and Ismail had smiled in appreciation.

“Used to be,” he’d replied. “Nowadays I’m all paperwork and oversight, but I like to keep my hand in.”

He’d brought out the crate of potions then, and explained their origin. Picked up during a raid on a black market, Newt had almost gasped when told the asking price for a single vial. “They can’t be serious!”

“Unfortunately, my friend, they absolutely are,” Ismail had said grimly.

“You mentioned side-effects?”

“In the best cases, stomach upsets and associated maladies. In the worst…? Blood poisoning and agues, accompanied by uncontrollable hysteria brought on by unwanted visions of death. No _actual_ deaths yet, that we know about, of course.”

“And no hint of actual curative properties I wager.”

“None whatsoever.”

Now Newt turns one of the vials between his fingers, holding it up to the light to examine the particulate suspension within. It glimmers the black of a snake’s eye and he feels his mouth turn down at the sides in disgust. To want to drink this people must be desperate indeed. “And you have no idea where they’re making it?”

Ismail sighs, and shakes his head, turning his palms up. “We are closer than we were, but they are elusive. They move around a great deal.”

“With a unicorn?”

“I know, but if you look at the sheets towards the bottom of the stack I gave you, you will see that we did manage to isolate chemicals we believe strongly indicate the presence of unicorn blood in the original serums.”

Newt sorts through the pile of papers and hums in acknowledgement. “Can I take these out of here?” he asks.

“That remains to be seen,” Ismail says apologetically. “For now, please work here, and leave everything here at the end of the day. It would be very helpful if you could look over what we’ve drawn up so far, and add your opinions regarding potential other creatures, or indeed any other ingredients you might suspect. The more we narrow it down, the more likely it is we will be able to track their suppliers, and of course from there to them.”

It makes sense, and Newt sorts through the pile of notes, looking at what information they’ve made available to him. Quite a bit actually, more than he’d expected. There’s to be a stipend, not that he truly needs it but it’s only proper of course, and he must sign some papers to confirm confidentiality and other such things, and from what he can see here he has, he supposes, a job for a few weeks. Another one, alongside publicising his book and attending seminars. He has a few of those to go to in the upcoming months, and for the first time in his life he’s going to be headlining them. That’s a thought he likes to push aside and ignore for now, not wanting the anxiety that accompanies the idea with all the force of an Erumpent’s charge.

He realises suddenly that Ismail is watching him, and it occurs to him that they are alone, and that this might be a good opportunity to set a few matters straight. It might well be necessary to do so anyway if they’re to be working together like this. And so he looks up, trying for innocence, and asks, “Is Mr Graves in yet?”

“Percy? Don’t worry, he doesn’t come in here, the mess scares him off. Like wolfsbane to a werewolf this place is.”

Newt can’t help but smile, because that does rather fit in with the impression he’s got of the man. Still, it’s not quite what he was angling for. Before he can continue, Ismail sits back and cuts in first. “Sorry to leave you last night, I hope the meal was to your standards.”

“Yes, lovely, thank you. Very good.”

“Got Percival off to bed all right? He can be a bit of a demon when it comes to these late night drinking sessions.”

Newt squints at Ismail, uncertain what the man is getting at. He’s fishing for information, clearly, or maybe that was some kind of joke - Newt can’t tell from the innocent expression on the other man’s face. “Ah, we, yes? I left him around midnight, he showed me where my distributor’s shop is. Walked me there so I can apparate back later.”

“Really? How good of him.”

They regard one another for a moment, and Newt gets the distinct impression that each of them are struggling with the same issue, that is, how to broach a desired topic. Newt, certain that it’s the _same_ topic, and that one of them has far more riding on its handling than the other, decides to be kind.

“What about your friend?” he asks.

“My friend-? Oh, yes - yes, of course. He’s well. Uncooperative, as usual.” Ismail gives him a thin smile, and begins to sort through the papers on his desk.

Newt knows an evasion when he sees one, but a certain underlying irritation pushes him to pry just a little more. After all, he went out of his way to answer Ismail’s summons and come to New York in the first place, the least the man can do is offer some explanation of his actions, if not his true intentions.

“You seemed very concerned about him when we first met,” Newt says slowly, and hears Ismail sigh quietly.

“I was. I _am._ Newt, my friend, please understand. This is a very... _delicate_ situation, and I, well, I may have moved with a little too much haste.”

The man has the decency to colour slightly in embarrassment, and Newt wonders suddenly if this unicorn rescue case he’s been offered is some kind of reparation for perceived damages to his free time. If it does turn out to be a unicorn in the end, well, Newt might even be moved to say that it would have been worth it. Right now though he looks through narrowed eyes at the blushing auror, and wonders exactly what he’s expected to do.

“Do you mean to say that you no longer require my assistance with his issue?” he asks carefully.

“No! That’s not at all what I meant to imply,” Ismail assures him hurriedly. “Please, remove that thought from your mind. I simply meant that I may require a little more time to bring him round to the idea of accepting help. You understand, I’m sure…?”

Newt represses a sigh. He’s still not sure what game is being played here, but he supposes that if this “friend” of Ismail’s is in fact Percival Graves, then, well, the issue is sensitive indeed, if indeed _memory loss_ is the issue at all. Certainly Mr Graves has given no indication whatsoever of it. Not that he’s suddenly an expert on Percival Graves, just that the whole thing seems so very outlandish. Still, if Ismail has acted too quickly, as he claims, then perhaps that’s code for acting without Graves’ knowledge or consent, and well, Newt can understand why Ismail might suddenly want to back off on the whole idea, particularly if Graves himself has gotten wind of his little plot.

Honestly, if Tina hadn’t assured him of Ismail’s loyalty to Graves, Newt might wonder if there was some darker conspiracy going on here. It wouldn’t exactly be the first time after all.

“So am I to continue thinking about creatures which might assist your friend with his memory loss, or is there some other malady I should be thinking about, Ibrahim?” Newt asks kindly.

Ismail clears his throat and straightens up, then finally looks Newt square in the eye. “If you would be so kind, my friend, to continue thinking along the same lines, I would most appreciate it. As will my friend, in the end, I am quite sure. He may not think so at this moment, but I believe in the midst of all this mess he has quite forgotten himself. And that, quite possibly, is the heart of the issue.”

Ibrahim stares him straight in the eye, and Newt wonders what, without directly stating it, the man is trying to convey. Honestly, _people._ He really does wish they could be more simple with the way they go about things. “All right,” he says, giving in. “In the meantime though, I don’t suppose I could have a look at some of this equipment of yours? I haven’t seen one of those Hornjar condensers for years!”

The grin that Ismail gives him is one of pure and genuine enthusiasm, and he claps his hands together, rubbing them in glee.

“ _Absolutely_ , my friend! _”_

  


*

  


The afternoon sunlight slants through the tall windows of the President’s office, and makes the golden embroidery of her headdress gleam. Outside the air is chill and wintery, but in here the warmth of a fire crackles in the grate, and the air is sweet with ritual incense.

“Have him stay with you.”

Percival Graves, seated in one of the chairs beside her desk, almost chokes on his swallow of coffee, and lowers the mug so sharply he nearly spills its contents across his lap. “ _What?_ ”

“You heard me,” she replies coolly, her eyes on the distant rooftops of the city skyline. “Have Scamander stay at your house. That way he’s always where we can see him, and if he thinks he’s being watched he’ll keep himself in line.”

Having come here to root out the method by which Ismail had managed to sneak the President’s number one target of unrelenting disapproval onto one of his cases, the last thing Graves had been expecting was to discover the suggestion had been hers in the first place. To reveal that the plot goes deeper still is beyond disturbing.

“I really don’t think that’s an acceptable solution. I can hardly command the man out of his hotel and into my guest rooms-”

“Your house is quite big enough, Percival. It’ll do you good to have some company in that empty place.”

He can hear the triumph in her tone as she says it. Seraphina has always disapproved in some amorphous way of Graves’ bachelor lifestyle. Even more so now after the events of last year proved to highlight just how isolated he had become. It’s not even a point he can fight her on, for in truth he has no defence against it. He is alone, and it did prove quite thoroughly to be his undoing. Regardless, that doesn’t mean he welcomes her pushing uninvited house guests on to him. Scamander may be a charming fellow, but Graves has never before allowed himself to be bullied, and he won’t start now.

“I believe he’s been offered a stipend to cover his hotel costs, or alternatively a room at the boarding house we typically use for visiting trainees,” he replies icily.

“Would you rather I have Ismail take him in?” she asks, and he can see the arch of her eyebrow in the reflection of the window.

“He damned well will not!” Graves snaps, alarmed by the very thought of it. Ismail has caused quite enough trouble already without giving the man round the clock unsupervised access to Scamander.

“Well then,” she says.

Graves clutches the handle of his coffee mug tightly, and thinks hard. It’s not that he dislikes the man, but the thought of having anyone living in his house with him makes his blood run cold. There are so many secrets in that house of his, so many secrets of his own that he doesn’t want to share. He doesn’t lead an ordinary life, and his work is everything to him. There is no woman in his home, no man in his bed, not even occasionally, and there hasn’t been for years. It’s not his way any more. He’s not sure it ever was, not seriously. And now is not the time to start taking in lodgers. He has- he is-...he is not in the right frame of mind. But of course, he cannot admit to that. That is far too dangerous a thing for a man like him to put voice to, so soon after he made such a monumental cock-up of his life.

“Seraphina,” he attempts, regardless. “I don’t think this is a good idea…”

She turns to him finally, and in her eyes there is no mercy, just as there never has been.

“It’s an order, Percival, not a request.”

The tightrope that he’s walking is already beginning to fray beneath his feet. Graves can feel the threads unravelling, can sense the chasm yawning wide and hungry beneath him, and know he cannot take a risk. He stares at her, and it dawns on him that there is no easy way out, and he has, with a skilled and sure deftness, once more been utterly defeated.

  
  
  


_**Part II ~ Home, Sweet Home.** _

  


Newt reacts to the declaration of his new living quarters with more grace than Graves probably would have done in his situation. It’s actually Seraphina that gives him the news, stood in Ismail’s office with Graves at her shoulder, looking serious and secretly rather relieved that he doesn’t have to be the one to do it. At least this way it looks like entirely what it is - Seraphina Picquery manifesting her extreme paranoia and disapproval by way of making someone else’s life miserable. It’s such a wonderful thing to experience when you’re not the one on the receiving end, but as it is Graves can feel only sympathy for Scamander’s plight.

Newt’s face, Newt’s entire body in fact, goes stiff at the news, and he gapes at her wordlessly for a long moment. “I...I, uh. I just- it’s not that, I mean, I really- I have a hotel!”

“Quite unnecessary, Mr Scamander,” Picquery replies. “It would be entirely remiss of MACUSA not to see to your accommodation personally, and, as I’m sure you’re aware, Percival has a grand house, extremely modern. You’ll be quite welcome and very comfortable there.”

Lacking both the social rank and the mental wherewithal to deny her, Newt can do nothing but look helplessly to Graves, who returns the look with a smile he hopes reads as something along the lines of: _be brave!_ Because Percival knows what it’s like to be trapped beneath the razor sharp will of Seraphina Picquery, and even after twenty years of it she can still make him quail.

“Well! This is a turn up for the books, don’t you think?” Ismail declares wickedly, once she’s swept from the room.

Graves gives him a killing glare, having still not forgiven him for his antics the previous evening, and offers Newt a conciliatory smile. It feels weak and strained even to him, but he’s not sure Newt notices through the stunned disbelief he’s still experiencing. He hopes the man can find it in himself to forgive him for this intrusion into his free will, and, fighting the urge to give him an apologetic bow, Percival beats a hasty retreat.

“We’ll bring his things over after work!” Ismail calls after him, but Graves refuses to rise to the bait.

In practice, Newt inserts himself into Graves’ routine with minimal fuss. That first evening, when he turns up at the door, Ismail in tow, Graves takes his coat, thanks his old friend for his thoughtfulness in accompanying him over, and then shuts the door firmly in Ismail’s face, having ushered Newt safely inside. The last thing he wants is Ibrahim around to make things even more awkward than they already are. Newt near cowers in the corner of Percival’s house, scrunched up like a kicked dog, and Graves wonders how either of them are ever going to make this work. The man is so damnably desperate not to offend, even when Graves thinks he’s making progress getting him to relax something else sets him to hiding behind his fringe and avoiding eye contact. It’s both infuriating and somewhat distressing. Despite years spent carefully cultivating a stern and commanding persona, which he admits some people may find intimidating, Newt’s bouts of extreme caution make Graves feel somewhat like a monster. Even so, possibly because of his shyness, the man is hardly a bother.   

Graves assigns him one of the bedrooms on the third storey, which means airing that entire floor, and cleaning the room thoroughly before he arrives. Once the windows are closed, he goes back and relocks all the remaining bedrooms behind him, shutting the doors again on the memory of his parents, his sister, and his brother, careful not to look too closely at any of their rooms. In, open windows, out. In, close windows, out. Lock up.

He gives Newt his old bedroom, hesitating as he does so, then deciding that any other bedroom will put the man on the next floor up again where the old servants quarters are, and that’s just ridiculous. He’s careful to remove anything that might indicate the room was once his though, throwing an extension charm on one of the wardrobes and tossing everything of a personal nature inside before locking it up securely. By the time he’s done the room is simply furniture and books, no trace of personality left. As an afterthought he wards closed the stairwell up to the fourth floor and tells himself it’s simply a logical step to take in anticipation of a creature escaping. It’s not as though that hasn’t already happened, and it should be expected that a man would take precautions against such creatures as sharp-eyed, sticky-fingered Nifflers. It has nothing whatsoever to do with paranoia or the stirrings of territoriality.  

He need not have worried, Newt accepts his living arrangements with no comment save sincere, if muffled, thanks. Graves is left to retreat to his sitting room, start up the fire, and worry if he should have cooked dinner.

Over the next two weeks, Newt ends up spending far more of his time than Graves suspects he’d ever thought possible, or indeed ever wanted to, hanging around the MACUSA offices. Ismail continues to lead on the trafficking case, with Graves watching from afar, but the gang is cautious and well-prepared and the going is slow. Despite being brought on as a consultant, there’s little at this point for Newt to do, and a limit to the authority that he, as a foreign civilian, can be allowed. So it is that Newt can be seen most days sitting at one of the spare desks in the bull pen of Major Crimes, furiously scribbling in his notepad, or composing answers to letters he’s received. Newt gets a _lot_ of mail, and he’s heard more than one of his aurors remark in surprised tones that the man gets more mail in a day than the entire department does in a week. When Graves finally asks him about it, Newt shrugs and with a self-conscious smile apologises if the owls are being a nuisance.

 _Fan mail,_ Graves assumes, and leaves him to it.

Tina becomes a familiar sight around the desk, and for once Graves lets it slide. He’s well aware of her ambitions regarding promotion to the team, and he’s not at all inclined to discourage her. It’s only pressure from other department captains who favour their own candidates, and a subtle warning to show restraint from Picquery that had kept him from putting her straight on his team the moment he’d returned. He admires what she did a year ago, and he appreciates an auror with skill, savvy and ambition. Regardless of what the rest of the brass say he’ll have her on his team by spring, is the promise he’s made himself. For the moment though he allows her frequent visits to see Newt, and doesn’t shoo her away when she ought not to be listening in. Training comes in many forms after all, and some people you can trust to be discreet.

It turns out that Graves need not have worried about cooking dinner. Whatever evenings the Goldstein sisters don’t take care of, Newt vanishes into the city, or, more often, into his case and sorts himself out. It leaves Percival both relieved, and strangely disappointed. Having not wanted the man in his house in the first place, he now finds himself mildly offended that he won’t seem to make himself at home. Frustrated by his own flip-flopping emotions, Graves turns his back on the entire situation and takes the reliable way out. He works, long and hard, just as has done for the last six months, out early in the morning, and back late in the evening. In this way he avoids intruding on Scamander’s privacy or having to face any awkward situations where one of them might feel obliged to keep the other company.

That Newt keeps entirely to his assigned bedroom, and the path between it and the front door, does not escape Graves. He believes the man goes down to the kitchen from time to time, although he never touches the food Graves has left in the pantry or the charmed coolbox, and Graves has never encountered him in there. It’s like living with a ghost, albeit one arguably more silent and unobtrusive than any phantom Graves has ever met.

There are times when Graves considers the idea of inviting Newt down to his sitting room to drink firewhisky and just talk - he’s still fascinated by Newt’s case and his creatures, and the desire to be shown more of the man’s exotic world is a tantalising lure. But then he realises that if he does that he’ll be opening himself to observation, to the man noticing his exhaustion or his pain, because Graves still won’t take the potions - he’ll fight them to the death on that and refuse even when he’s spitting up blood and bile. And maybe they’ll start talking about things Graves can’t afford to speak of, because if a man lives in your house and works in your office he’s likely to start thinking he can have more personal conversations with you, and this too Graves simply _cannot afford._ He can’t be caught out and he can’t be seen to anything but entirely in control and the fear of seeming anything but makes his breath come short and sharp, so that he has to have another drink to calm himself down. No, no, such a meeting between them would risk being a window into his discomfort that he simply can’t afford.

There is one encounter of note throughout this period of caution and awkward maneuvering, and of course it involves one of Newt’s beasts. Graves comes down early one morning, on his way to brew coffee before heading out, and hears voices coming from the dining room. A single voice actually, he realises when he cocks his head to listen. He turns off the hall and stands in the doorway to the dining room, to find himself confronted by Scamander’s scrawny haunches. The man is kneeling down talking to someone, or something, that appears to be hiding beneath the dining room table. Graves immediately assumes the Niffler has escaped again, but the lack of urgency in Newt’s tone of voice makes him conclude otherwise.

It turns out, once Newt has cracked his head on the underside of the table leaping up at the sound of Percival’s voice, that his Kneazle has escaped. The man has been letting her live in his bedroom for the past three days to keep her away from the Niffler upon whose life she’s recently made several attempts. _It’s just in her nature, she doesn’t mean any harm by it. Well, other than eating him,_ Newt had said, rubbing at his sore head. Graves had resisted very firmly the urge to comment on that, and had peered under the table at the pair of emerald eyes staring back at him. He is, in truth, quite fond of Kneazles. And that is how there comes to be a silver and black Kneazle in his home, but that’s all right because she sleeps all day, and doesn’t ask for anything more than a little meat at dawn and dusk and to be allowed to sit in the windows of the upstairs living room and watch the birds in the trees outside.

And so this is how they take the next two weeks, in careful stride, and the cautious dance of unobtrusion and politeness. Newt creeps around the edges of Graves house and life alike, and this is to Picquery’s satisfaction and Ismail’s despair of the both of them. Graves forces his life to comply with his dream of normalcy by working solidly through it all, and won’t allow himself to be turned aside from his path by anyone. In the quiet hours of the early morning he sits in his room, surrounded by books and tomes and works his way through all of them, over and over, piecing his life back together from the remnants of what has been left to him. Because if he doesn’t then the darkness of what he doesn’t know yawns wide beneath his feet and he knows the ground is an awful long way down. The Kneazle sits on his lap, and her purring calms him, and when that’s not enough the firewhisky does the rest.

Somehow, amidst it all, a balance is reached, and for now preserved.

  


*

 

It’s close to 2am when Newt steps out of the shower and towels himself dry. Percival’s house has all the modern muggle conveniences, and Newt has found himself rather fond of taking advantage of them. Long trips through the wilderness have taught him to value home comforts when he can get them, and he’s not purist enough to turn his nose up at muggle devices. There’s a certain charm to turning a tap and having the water come out hot, yet knowing that it’s mechanical trickery that’s achieving the end result rather than magic. The whole experience feels rather illicit, even though he’s in the home of MACUSA’s sternest auror, and knows full well that these American wizards, for all their stringent anti-muggle laws, like to keep abreast of every modern “no-maj” invention. He’s not entirely sure how they marry the two philosophies together, but he’s quite happy to make use of it.

It’s been a long evening. He’d been out to see the girls earlier, and had stayed out longer than he’d intended catching up and relaxing in their pleasant company. It’s nice just to sit in their apartment and listen to the two of them tease one another, and let himself be teased in turn. And of course, Queenie’s cooking remains as heavenly as ever. Newt’s belly is full even now, having come home to spend a couple of hours mucking out and feeding his creatures. He closes the door to the ensuite behind him to keep the steam in, and towels his hair dry. Graves’ house is astonishingly opulent, but Newt has long since given up wondering how he owns it. It turns out that he was right, the Graves are an old American wizarding family related to the first aurors that ever came over here. As such he supposes that the family made its fortune over the years working whatever protection and specialist jobs for which they were best suited.

The past two weeks have been a strange kind of working holiday. Newt has spent them primarily surrounded by aurors, not something he’s concerned by considering his brother’s chosen profession and subsequent social circle, but there’s a difference between coming home to find your older brother drinking in the parlour with his work buddies, and spending your every waking moment surrounded by their type. The American aurors are a strange lot, Newt has decided. A little stiff with him at first, they’ve thawed over the last week and now he’s even on a first name basis with a few of them. He doesn’t always understand their humour, but none of them seem to dislike or like him to any great extent, and that’s good enough for Newt. If they’d shunned him, or worse, tried to drag him out drinking with them, he’s not sure what he would have done.

He supposes their reluctance to get too close to him stems from what happened a year ago, and his working under the direct supervision of one of their commanding officers whilst staying at the house of the other one. Which brings his thoughts back to Graves. Newt really doesn’t know what’s going on with Percival Graves, though he has his suspicions. Graves seems intent on working himself to death, and at first Newt had wondered if _he_ was the cause of the man’s almost continual absence from his own home, but when he’d floated his concern with Tina, she’d shot it down immediately. Apparently working himself to death is the default state of being for Percival Graves.

Newt’s not sure he’d liked the slight roll of her eyes or the dismissive way she’d quickly moved on to other topics, because even if it bothers no-one else Newt finds the man’s actions deeply alarming. He’s learned to look quickly away from Queenie’s interested gaze any time Graves is brought up in conversation, desperately blanking his mind to the best of his ability. It’s not that he has anything to hide, it’s just that he doesn’t feel entirely comfortable with her knowing just how concerned he is by the man’s routines. It’s not fair that she should get an insight into the man’s life just because Newt can’t keep his thoughts to himself. And Percival is _such_ a private person, Newt feels awful encroaching on his personal space as he clearly already is. He also knows full well to lay the blame squarely at Seraphina Picquery’s feet because Ismail had cheerfully informed him so on the walk over to the house that first day, and as such he’s fully aware why she’d done it too. He supposes that obliquely he has Theseus to thank for his current situation, for after all it’s Newt’s “political” ties that have him holed up in one of the many spare rooms of MACUSA’s finest auror.

Which brings his thoughts squarely back to Graves yet again. He’s spent the past two weeks answering letters, giving what little advice he’s able to on the trafficking case, and thinking about how he’s supposed to help the man. He can’t bear to corner him and attempt to talk, partially because he’s not entirely sure how he’d even go about starting that conversation - “Oh, Mr Graves! Didn’t see you there! Well, while I have you, I don’t suppose you want to talk about your mental health, do you? No? Maybe? Please don’t hex me?” - but primarily because the man is like quicksilver when he wants to be. Newt has barely seen him beyond sightings in the office, occasional quick chats in the company of other aurors, and hardly at all at home. There’d been the one time downstairs when he’d accidentally let Misty escape the bedroom and she’d subsequently shot off downstairs like a jinx, leading to Newt making an utter ass of himself smacking his head on the table trying not to look like an idiot crawling around on the floor. There’s probably another reason Graves has taken to avoiding him and that’s because he can’t bear to be around morons.

Still, for all that he’s been summarily unable to hide entirely from his house guest. Newt’s seen him in the office, and he knows he stays up late at night because he’s seen the evidence of it in the sitting room before Newt heads over to work. The man is working himself to the very brink of exhaustion, running on fumes and alcohol by the smell of it, and suffering greatly for it. Newt’s seen him limping off up the stairs when he thinks he’s unobserved, and holding himself statue-still and wand-straight in the manner of all creatures hiding a wound everywhere. No, Newt’s seen damage like this before, both physical and emotional, and it’s not something you can fix in two weeks, and certainly not something you can just come out and ask about.

Newt breathes out a long breath, hot from the shower and still feeling the heat radiating from his skin. Despite the long day he’s not yet ready for bed. His mind is still active from the physical exertion of mucking out, and the energy of the evening’s chatter with the Goldsteins. With a sudden soft curse he snaps his fingers. _Salt_. He’d meant to get some more from the store today to use in a broth he’s making up for the Graphorns. It was supposed to go in four hours ago, but he’d simply forgotten. However, Graves might have enough to spare in his kitchen - Newt can always replace anything he uses tomorrow. Throwing on a shirt and pulling on a clean pair of trousers, he slings the towel on the back of the chair and slips barefoot out of the room.

Graves’ house is silent and cold, and briefly Newt wishes for his casual house robes. Resolving to be swift and silent about his task, he makes his way quickly downstairs, bare feet soft on the plush carpet.

Newt is always careful to keep to himself in Graves’ house, not through any real fear of repercussion, but through simple politeness. It’s not right to go wandering through another person’s house, not least that of a powerful wizard like Percival. The last thing he wants to do is stumble across something sentient and unfriendly, or just plain unfriendly. The ward that shuts off the top floor of the building, although subtle, has not passed beneath Newt’s attention. He doesn’t mind. So Percival has his secrets and his boundaries - that kind of thing is to be expected, and Newt wouldn’t dare test the limits of his tolerance.

When Newt reaches the ground floor he’s brought up short by a light from the end of the hall. The entrance to the kitchen is just across from him, but the light spilling out of the sitting room is warm and flickering. He can hear the crackle of wood in the grate and see the edge of a circle of lamplight. Percival is in, and apparently still up.

For a moment, Newt hesitates. He could retreat and fetch the salt tomorrow, it would prevent him having to explain what he’s up to, and it would mean he wasn’t disturbing Graves. It’s not that he minds talking to the man, in fact he’d thought they’d been getting along rather well after their dinner out. It’s just that the sheer embarrassment of being dumped on him as an unwelcome house guest had sent Newt into a fit of anxious difficulties that had, as with so many other times he’s experienced them, left him tongue-tied and feeling like an unwelcome imposter. He _knows_ he becomes uptight and awkward if put into a social quandary without warning, but even after years of trying he still can’t make himself unwind enough to laugh off such situations like other people seem to do with such ease.

He’s still dithering on the bottom step when there’s a creak and the sound of someone shifting in their chair. The hall, despite its size, is so silent that he still hears the subtle noise, and there’s no mistaking the presence of another person in that room.

“Newt?” a voice calls softly.

_Damn it._

Wincing, Newt takes the final step down, and makes his way towards the sitting room. As he pushes the door fully open and peers inside he is acutely aware of the state of his clothing - with shirt untucked and only partially buttoned, no vest, no cufflinks and neither shoes nor socks he’s hardly dressed for company.

Percival Graves is sitting in his usual armchair by the fire, a notepad open and resting on the chair’s broad arm, the Kneazle curled up in his lap. His tie is gone, collar open, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbow exposing his forearms, but otherwise he looks the picture of the relaxed gentleman.

“Is everything all right?” he asks.

 _I could well ask you that question,_ Newt thinks. _It’s 2am and here you are still working._ Instead he says, “Uh, yes. Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you.”

In the flickering firelight, Graves looks haggard and worn. Newt is honestly shocked by it, and wonders suddenly if he’s always like this, and if he is, how much of it he’s hiding during the day behind potions. That’s not a good life choice to make, Newt thinks. Relying on potions to keep you going is a fool’s game - he knows well enough himself how badly that can turn out if you get it wrong. Concern makes him take a step inside the room, angling for a better look at the other man. Newt may be shy in social circumstances, but he’s also easily moved to concern and once focussed on a person in need very difficult to sway from his course.

“Still working?” he asks quickly.

Graves hesitates, then closes the notepad, setting it aside and out of sight. “Ah, yes. I find I think most clearly around now.”

 _Really_ , Newt thinks. _Pull the other one, Mr Graves._ He watches as Graves’ eyes flick up to the clock on the mantelpiece, and is interested to see the flash of surprise cross his features. Perhaps he really had lost track of the time.

“I often work when I can’t sleep. It’s how most of my book got written, honestly,” Newt says, giving the man an out. He feels cruel catching him off balance like this, and then trapping him there with his presence. On the other hand, he has been meaning to speak to him for two weeks now, and being foiled at every turn. If this isn’t a perfect opportunity to try and get the man talking to him then he doesn’t know what is.

“It has gotten late, hasn’t it?” Graves murmurs. “I suppose I lost track of time. Are you sure you’re all right?” He turns his attention back to Newt and with it comes a return of the intensity Newt associates with aurors.

Feeling inexplicably guilty all of a sudden, Newt nods, “I came down to see if you had any salt actually.”

“Salt?”

“I was supposed to buy some today, but I forgot. It’s for a broth I’m making. One of the Graphorns has a problem and needs a bit of help.”

Graves shakes his head, as though to clear it, then makes to get up. “Of course, yes, how much do you need?”

“No, it’s fine, please- don’t.”

Graves halts halfway through rising and gives Newt a concerned and confused look at the sharpness of his tone. It makes Newt wince. This is going about as well as he would have predicted.

“I didn’t come down to disturb you, Mr Graves,” he says softly, trying to reassure the man that his house guest hasn’t got anything to hide except the fact he came to steal the salt. “I’ll go and fetch it later, it’s really not that important.”

Slowly, Graves settles himself back in his chair, and there’s a look Newt can’t quite figure out on his face. He thinks it’s probably to do with being ordered around in his own home, and Newt can feel himself starting to blush. He wishes it were easier to deal with people, particularly the ones he likes. But time and experience have taught Newt to be wary, especially of powerful men like Graves. He sighs, thinking of the absurdity of the situation, and wishes he had half Theseus’ ability to smooth talk his way out of a bind.

“Do you...want to join me?” Graves offers, and Newt can still hear the confusion in his voice. There’s something stretched and raw about the way Graves asks the question, as though in the small hours of the morning there’s no place for anything but honesty. Clearly he’s as much at a loss for how to deal with this situation as Newt is. It makes him seem softer somehow, more human, and for a second Newt is reminded of the way the man had fallen asleep in his shed, dozing in the chair like it was a sunday afternoon nap.

“Of course,” Newt says.

He takes the seat opposite Graves, sinking down into the plush armchair with a sigh. The fabric breathes out the scent of tobacco and sandalwood, and he knows with sudden certainty who normally sits here. Pushing the thought aside, Newt stretches his bare feet out to be warmed by the fire, then catches Graves looking, and instantly feels himself blush. His toes curl in embarrassment, but there’s a small smile at the corner of Graves mouth, and the man looks away again almost immediately.

A silence falls between them, filled only by the crackle of the fire and the low, rumbling purr of the Kneazle, and Newt takes the opportunity to slide a look sideways. Yes, Graves looks exhausted. Newt can see it in the pallor of his skin, the darkness under his eyes and the slight squint of his gaze. He holds himself with a revealing tension, and the angle at which he sits is telling. You’re still in pain, Newt thinks. You’re in pain, and you’re on the edge of something - of a breakthrough, or, more likely a break down. The revelation is shocking, and Newt looks away uncomfortably. Men so close to the edge of coping need the help of their peers, not the fear and respect of their underlings. But who can be considered a peer to Percival Graves? Who can he afford to trust? Who does he even _have_ to trust? Newt can think of one person, and that person has already admitted that his friend is uncooperative.

“I meant to say earlier,” he says slowly. “I have more balm made up for you, if you need it.”

Graves is good, but Newt can still see the interest flicker in his eyes before it’s hidden behind politeness. No, not just interest, relief too.

“Yes, I’d appreciate that, thank you.”

You could have just told me if you’d run out, Newt thinks to himself. But you wouldn’t, would you? That would be far too much like displaying weakness. Damned aurors. The unbelievable pride of you, you’re all the blasted same! And what are you going to do if I leave you here? Sit up all night in pain? Newt wonders how much the man sleeps any more. He can smell firewhisky on the air, but he can’t see the bottle. Maybe he’s being too harsh in his assessment, but Newt’s diagnosed illness and injury in Nundu and Ukrainian Ironbellies alike, neither beast ever willing to display weakness, and he’s sensitive enough to pick up the shallowness of Graves’ breathing and the uneven distribution of his weight where he favours his left side.

“If you like, you can come down and fetch it now?” It’s a risk, clearly, because why in Merlin’s name would Graves want to come clambering down into Newt’s case at this time of night, but Graves seizes the opportunity with an immediate yet somehow offhand mildness that simply confirms to Newt how desperate he is.

“Of course. Why don’t I get that salt for you too…?”

Newt takes the lead on the walk back to the third floor and his case. Graves limps along behind him, and by the time they’ve gone the first turn of the spiral staircase Newt has to bite his tongue not to offer to run ahead and fetch back the balm rather than make him walk all the way there. He doesn’t though, well aware how that would go down. Newt’s been around aurors and men like Graves long enough to know that they’ll break themselves before they admit needing help. And that’s the damned problem, isn’t it? he thinks angrily to himself as they climb. Politely he turns his back as Graves painfully descends the ladder into his shed, busying himself with pulling out the little pot of balm. As soon as he hears Graves’ feet touch the floor of his shed he turns and holds it out.

“Here, put some on.”

Graves, pale-faced and looking like a child’s jinx could knock him on his backside, takes the proffered pot and seats himself stiffly on Newt’s lone chair. Politely Newt turns his back and starts salting the broth, giving the man some space to sort himself out.

The musky scent of cloves and salamander scales fills the air as Graves pulls up his shirt and begins to apply the balm, and Newt concentrates on stirring the broth, adjusting the temperature of the flame just slightly to keep it simmering. The shed is still warm enough to incubate the Fwooper eggs he has under the desk, and combined with the heat from the ever-burning stove the small room is far too warm to sleep in. Hence why he’s been making actual use of the bed in the room upstairs these past two weeks. He loses himself in thoughts of Fwooper chicks and the little perch he’s already built for them, hearing the quiet shuffle of clothing and movement behind him.  

“It’s night out there then?”

Newt turns with raised eyebrows and Graves nods his chin towards the door of the shed, and the small square of darkness that’s visible. Newt has tacked thick cloth up over the windows to help keep in the heat, so the only visible part of the outside world is the glass in the door.

“Yes. There is the actual night habitat, but I run a lighting charm to help it seem like there’s a natural day-night cycle for everyone else. You’d soon notice if you were forced to live in the daylight for days on end.” He offers Graves a small smile, eyeing him surreptitiously as he does so. Graves isn’t looking at him, he’s staring out the tiny window with something strangely close to longing, and for a second his expression completely throws off Newt’s thought patterns. The auror looks as though the balm is already exerting its influence over his pain levels, and Newt knows the stuff is potent, but there’s definitely something in it that just seems to suit Graves’ physical make-up judging by how well he reacts to it. Newt taps the spoon on the side of his cauldron before setting it down. “Would you like to go see?” he asks mildly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to disturb any of the beasts…”

“No, no, you won’t. Besides, it’s quite nice out there at night. Very peaceful. Come on, I’ll show you.”

As they rise, there comes a scratching at the top of the ceiling, and Graves looks up in alarm. Newt leans past him and points his wand at the hatch to unlock it. “It’s just Misty, wants to come down and see what we’re doing. You go on ahead, I’ll let her in.”

As Graves wanders outside, Newt lets the Kneazle back in, resets the locking and disinclination charms, and then goes out to join him. The auror is standing at the foot of the steps to the shed, looking up and around at the habitats. He’s wearing that same expression of hooded interest Newt has seen on his face every time he’s brought him down here - an almost youthful curiosity concealed behind the mask of an adult - a long-suffering, seen-it-all-before-auror at that. Newt’s always found it fascinating how different people react to his case and his beasts. There’s always some that react with horror, some with disbelief and an offensive sort of pity for what they perceive as his insanity, but the best ones are the ones like what Newt is now certain Graves is - those that look around and for the first time in a very long time, see magic again.  

He moves down to stand at Graves’ shoulder, looking up at the canvas of stars he’s charmed into the ceiling above. There are lamps and muted light sources scattered around, lighting the paths and illuminating some of the habitats. There’s the soft glow of the Niffler’s lair over to one side, and the flickering torches of the cave systems to the other. The air is filled with the night time murmurs of the beasts, from the chirping of the food crickets to the soft susurration of the Billywigs in their tree, and the occasional cry of the night hunters patrolling their habitats. It’s peaceful, and a sudden thought takes hold of Newt and won’t let go.

“Come with me,” he says, and then heads off without waiting to see if Graves will comply.

Newt makes his way down the paths, moving slowly and taking the long route to give Graves time to take in the atmosphere and look all he pleases. Long before they reach their destination, they can both hear the song of its inhabitants and see the softly flickering light of their presence. The underwater habitat is a great floating cube of water that Newt has levitated and affixed in place with loops of charmed rope. It has several openings in the side and one large one on top which is currently out of sight, that the aquatic beasts use to enter and exit their home. As they breach the side of the water cube their environment pinches off into smaller globes of water that allows the beasts to float freely into the upper reaches of the case. Newt had spent months enchanting this habitat, determined to give his creatures as much of an illusion of the vast bodies of open water to which they were accustomed as he physically could. He’s proud of the results, even if he does say so himself.

“The thing with a lot of magical aquatic beasts is that they’re bioluminescent,” he says to Graves as they both come to stand in the shadows below the great cube, looking up into its depths. Its surface is busy with beasts entering and exiting, floating up to the roof of the case in glowing streams of life, following along on currents only they can perceive. “They use their light to hunt, and to display for mates, and sometimes just because.”

He turns to look at Graves, and finds the auror staring upwards, mouth slightly open at the sight above. Newt smiles, and reaches out to tap him on the wrist to get his attention. “Here, come this way.”

The Mooncalf habitat, fronted by a stepped outcropping of rock and grass, is next to the water enclosure, and Newt leads Graves up the steep side of this until he finds his favourite spot near the top. The Mooncalves themselves are further along inside, down in the false plain of grass he’s set up for them and far out of reach. Newt settles down on the grass and pats the ground next to him. Graves’ eyes are still on the softly illuminated water and the ripple of light from within, but he sits down where he’s bidden, and then, following Newt’s example, lies back on the grass beside him.

“Look up there,” Newt points, then whistles a soft, lilting phrase that lifts at the end. He repeats the melody twice, and then waits, Graves glancing from him to where his attention is directed. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the light gathered at the very top of the cube begins to move, and then suddenly there is a creature spilling over the edge of the enclosure, moving with serene and graceful undulations over the top and out into the open air. This creature doesn’t appear to surrounded by water like the others, and the soft patter of falling water hitting the ground accompanies its movements where its great tendrils writhe and weave through the air.

“Is that the Marmite…?” Graves asks, stunned.

Newt smiles at the unadulterated awe in his voice, and nods. “Mhm. That’s what he looks like at night. You saw him a few weeks ago, but it was daylight then, so he wasn’t as impressive.”

The Marmite, raised from infancy by Newt, floats out over the Mooncalves’ habitat, his long tentacles floating down in an intricate and beautiful dance as he levitates himself towards the source of the whistled summons. His body is large and bulbous, glowing from within with a blue so bright as to be nearly white, and little shocks of vibrant purple glimmer down his tendrils in regular pulses as he propels himself onwards. His body makes a rhythmic humming sound, almost a beating drum on the night air, and around him float an accompanying flock of water-encased Ramora that gleam silver in his reflected light, like an honour guard of gleaming quicksilver fish.

“He’s beautiful, they’re all beautiful,” Graves says, shaking his head.

Newt hums happily in response, watching the play of light over Graves features, and noting how much younger the look of wonder he wears makes him seem. “He’s fully grown now. Marmites sit on the surface of the water and let their tentacles float down below them. The glowing light attracts plankton and they eat it up. They normally live at sea, but there are freshwater species too.”

“And this one?”

“Native to the Indian Ocean.”

“Amazing.”

Newt smiles, and looks up at the creatures floating above them. Having recognised the man that rescued and raised him since he was small enough to carry in his saviour’s arms, the Marmite settles into a slow circling pattern above their heads, his tendrils drifting gently through the night time air, lighting up the surrounding area with a marvellous display of light and the gentle, thrumming sound of his passing. It’s a mesmeric and beautiful display, and the two men lie in silence, warm despite the night time atmosphere, and watch him play above them. Soon, drawn by the concentrated display of light and perhaps hoping optimistically for food, some of the other aquatic creatures float down from on high to join them, and the air is filled with the beauty of their dancing, and the rippling hum of their stately movements.

At some point, Newt’s not entirely sure when, he glances over and finds that Graves, lulled by the gentle hum of the Marmite’s dancing and the glimmering lights of his entourage, has closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. Smiling broadly, thoroughly pleased with both himself and his creatures, Newt shuts his own eyes and joins him.

  


*

 

Percival wakes up to a persistent buzzing in his pocket, and for a very long moment cannot work out where the hell he is. Then his eyes focus on the watery lighting and the soft pulsing of sound from nearby, and he remembers. With one hand he digs in his pocket for his watch, smoothing the movement when he realises that the weight and warmth on his belly is from the sleeping form of Misty, curled up tight and keeping them both warm. Holding the watch face up to the light of the Marmite still floating nearby, he squints at the time. _6.30am._ He’s not even late. They won’t expect to see him in the office for another hour yet, so why the hell is Ibrahim trying to reach him at this time in the morning? This better be good, damn him.

He pulls the gold medal from his pocket, tapping it sharply with his thumb to cease its vibrating, and gently pushes himself to a sitting position. The Kneazle resists at first, then finally gives up and uncurls herself to the ground next to him, and Graves pushes her bushy tail out of his face, looking over to the man at his side. Newt is still asleep, breathing slow and deep, his features relaxed in slumber. For the first time since they met Graves finds himself able to examine the man’s face without him hiding himself away behind dipped chin and that curling fringe of his. It feels somehow illicit to do so, but it’s so rare to see the man so unguarded. In the light of the slowly circling creatures he looks pale but handsome, like a statue from the early times. It is strange to see him there, so undefended and trusting in sleep, and a warmth rises in Graves’ chest, a shaky acknowledgement that he’s been granted a great privacy to see him thus.

For a long moment Graves regards him thoughtfully, admiring his sleeping profile, until a small suspicion of his own intentions starts growing in his mind. There is no denying that Newt is attractive, and kind, and...fascinating-, _but that would be_ ... _indulgent_ , he thinks to himself, _you cannot_ , and with a frown he shakes off the thought.

The medal in his palm begins to vibrate again insistently, and Graves climbs to his feet, making his way quietly down the stepped hillside to the path. He finds his way back to the shed with minimal fuss, closing the door carefully behind himself to keep the heat in, jumping a little when the Kneazle leaps up on his shoulder to be carried up the ladder. He only pauses a few moments once on the outside to work out how the case relocks, his skilled gaze finding the trigger mechanism for the disinclination charms after only a moment’s perusal. Then he makes his way down to the kitchen, hooking a slice of ham that he normally keeps for his own lunch from the coolbox and feeding it to the Kneazle as he takes up the hand mirror from where he left it on the kitchen table.

“And there is our sleeping beauty! I thought you were going to cold shoulder me completely, old man. I was halfway to packing my wand up and coming round to prise you from your bed myself.”

Graves gives the face in the mirror an unfriendly grunt, and stretches his stiff shoulders.

“You _are_ alone, yes? I’m not interrupting anything am I…?” the image asks, sounding hopeful.

“For Merlin’s sake, what the hell do you want, Ibrahim?” Graves growls, and his second gives him an innocent smile.

“Easy, my friend. I only ask because I care about you!”

“Ibrahim…”

“Ah, you will be the death of all joy, Percival. All right, listen up now.”

There’s a rush of air at his side, and then the Kneazle is back on Graves’ shoulders, her tail curling around his neck as she perches primly, her eyes on the movement in the mirror.

“Hm, she’s a beauty, though a little hairier than I expected.”

“Ibrahim, I swear to Morgana-”

“We’ve found them! I have them, Percival. The gang is ours. I know where they’re operating from, and I have confirmation that they have product stored in the same location. If we move on them now we’ll get both them and full proof of what they’ve been doing.”

Graves breathes out a long breath and nods in satisfaction. “You have a working plan?”

Ibrahim nods. “The beginnings of one. I’m calling in my team now as they get here: Purslow, Luther, Harris-”

“Take Alvarez and Katz too.”

“Yes, and Percy? Bring Newt, he can wait on the outside, but I need someone to look after him.”

“You’ll be going in then,” Graves says, eyebrows raised in mock disbelief. “There’s not going to be a desk in there to hide behind.”

It’s only partially a joke, and they both know it. Ismail’s skills lie in clever deduction and intricate investigative spells, not in the brute force of a magical assault. As an auror he’s no slouch at combat magic, but the jest is a long-running one between them.

“If it gets tough, I’ll throw myself beneath the unicorn and pray to Allah for mercy.”

Graves huffs softly, and shakes his head. “I’ll bring Scamander. No doubt someone will need to keep him from throwing his damned self headfirst into the rescue.”

“Excellent, my friend. There will be a briefing at ten o’clock. Bring yourselves. Tonight we strike!”

The mirror’s surface shimmers and then returns to its usual reflective sheen. Graves lets out a deep breath, scratches the Kneazle’s cheek, and goes to wake Newt.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tempestarii> \- I learned a thing!
> 
> <https://ny.curbed.com/2017/6/9/15771578/upper-east-side-david-rockefeller-house-for-sale> \- If you’re interested in seeing the house I based Graves’ home on. I looked for something _outrageously_ opulent, and will probably never explain the backstory for why his family has it (in this fic at least), but also, also, if Newt can do what he does with a battered old suitcase, just imagine what powerful rich witching families can do with a private home.
> 
> Also, I made a Tumblr - <http://absolutelynogravitaswhatsoever.tumblr.com> \- please come talk to me because I am new to the fandom and desperately need friends to bounce ideas off. :]
> 
> Thank you, as ever, for reading!


	4. Unidentified, unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raids, a rescue, and a confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mid-week update? What is this madness? Well. I do hope you like Percival angst because here's 16K words of it. Enjoy! o/

Newt can tell that something’s wrong from the way the aurors are acting. They’re too quiet, too watchful, and there’s the slightest of frowns on the face of the closest one he can see. Alvarez, he thinks, Sofia, her eyes narrowed as she watches the doorway to the cellar. Wary, but not excited, there’s an undercurrent of dismay within the team that even Newt can feel. Graves is a shadow amongst shadows in the darkness ahead of him, still and silent. Newt can see his profile when he turns his head to look out across the street, and his eyes are dark, expression guarded. He too is suspicious.  

Newt wants desperately to ask what’s going on, but already he’s been shushed by Percival, and he doesn’t want to risk speaking again. They’re standing in an alley in a part of New York that Newt doesn’t recognise, looking across the street to a set of stairs that descends to a basement. The area is NMR as the aurors say: no-maj residential, and the streets are gloomy. Poverty has left its mark here, and Newt can feel the press of humanity heavy all around. It’s close to one in the morning, and the air is cold enough to lay down a thin frost. If it weren’t for the heating charms in his coat Newt would be frozen cold. 

Across the street there’s movement. Newt sees Ismail and three of his aurors moving quickly and silently along the sidewalk. They wear the long coats that MACUSA aurors all seem to favour, a hearkening back to robes, but sanitized for no-maj eyes. Sometimes it’s easier to blend in than it is to hide outright. Newt watches as they quickly descend the steps to the cellar door, and after a moment the four aurors gathered to his left move out and cross the street to join them. There are two more on look-out further up and down the street, but he can’t see them from where he stands. The aurors’ departure leaves him alone with Graves, and Newt takes a half-step closer to him. It’s not fear that makes him do it, but the nervous excitement of it all. He wants to move, to join the front line and be there to protect whatever it is they’ve got captured. Newt’s still not convinced it’s a unicorn, but he has no better explanation for them at this point, so he’s held his tongue.

Graves glances back over his shoulder at him, checking him over, attention drawn by his movement. Newt gives him a brief smile, and tries to hold himself still. He can feel the auror assessing him, wary of a civilian’s presence and alert to anything foolish he might do. Newt’s not going to do  _ anything _ , he’s already promised that. Stay at the back with Graves, stay behind him, keep back if there’s trouble, do not engage if they come into contact with hostiles. Graves will handle it, Graves will protect him. Newt’s all very grateful for Graves, but honestly he’s more than capable of looking out for himself.

Across the street there’s a shift of shadows and movement, and the auror team are inside. They go in under the heavy cloak of a silencing spell, but Newt knows from experience that they’ll be making an awful lot of noise. Intimidation tactic, shock and awe, all the rest of it, he thinks and shifts his weight in anticipation.

“Easy,” Graves murmurs to him soothingly, and Newt is seized by a wildly inappropriate desire to giggle. He’s not a nervous beast to be calmed and quieted, and the absurdity of Graves thinking so is both touching and mildly insulting. Newt’s no brawler, but he’s been in situations most dire before and people always seem to underestimate his ability to cope. Nonetheless he settles himself for the auror’s sake, and they wait, out of sight in the gloom. 

It’s several minutes before an auror reappears on the steps and raises a hand, signalling that it’s safe for them to approach. Newt takes their swift return as confirmation that something’s not right. “That was fast,” he says. 

“Stay behind me,” Graves replies in a low voice, but Newt can tell by his tone that he agrees. 

They cross the street like ghosts in the gloom, Newt a shadow at Graves’ back, and Alvarez greets them with a grim nod. “Empty,” she says. 

Graves glances at her, and Newt tries to read the look that passes between them. Two weeks is not long enough to be familiar with the subtle signals of MACUSA’s aurors, and he is left perplexed as she stands back to let them pass, leaving Newt scrambling to keep up with the Director. Graves pauses inside the door, his hand held out to keep Newt behind him as he assesses the interior. Newt almost walks into his shoulder and has to draw up sharply, impatient to see if anything, or any beast, has been left behind. 

The basement is strangely constructed. They stand in a small room that acts as an entrance hall for the basement proper, and as Graves leads them carefully through into the main area the space opens out into a large room, the interior walls knocked out to allow for the insertion of long potion benches. It smells of smoke and alchemy down here, a bitter scent of burning that overlays everything, bearing a sickly sweet high note that sticks to the back of the tongue on a drawn-in breath. The aurors are spread out amongst the benches, their wands lifted high. Someone has charmed lumos’ed coins to float in the air, and by their light Newt can see rows of empty benches, their surfaces burnt and stained, but devoid of any potions apparatus, save for a few forgotten vials. The walls are whitewashed, the floor tacky beneath his feet, and it’s bitterly cold down here.

Ismail stalks over, his face pinched into a frown. He has his hand held out by his side, palm down, a pale glow emanating from beneath. Newt doesn’t know the spell but can see by the curl and glimmer of it that it’s some kind of discernment charm. “Gone,” he says simply, voice tight. Newt can hear strictly controlled frustration in his voice, and takes a step out and around Graves to leave the two of them to it. The room is large but empty, and clearly there is no beast down here. Even so, he wants to check for spoor that might help him work out what they’ve been holding captive. Ismail sees him move and holds out his other hand to corral him in place. “Stay here please, Newt. It’s not secure yet.”

Newt frowns, but does as he is bidden, and Graves glances back at him. “Soon,” he promises. “Just wait for now.”

The two aurors exchange observations in a dense technical dialect, and Newt hangs back, already tense with frustration but unwilling to disobey them. Both men are stern and watchful tonight, professional aurors going about their business, and he can feel how tightly wound the team around him is. There’s no-one here that will forgive an indiscretion on his part, and a mix of reserve and a fear of making a fool of himself in front of them keeps him quiet. He notes with wry amusement how Percival hands him off to Ismail’s care with a glance, and then moves further into the basement, eyes scanning the benches. Ismail stands still beside Newt, eyes closed, hand outstretched and palm down, reading the room’s arcane trace energies.

Left briefly to his own devices, Newt lifts himself up on tip-toe to look over the top of the furthest bench, scanning around for anything of interest. There’s no space in here for a unicorn, not unless they were keeping it inside some kind of container similar to his own case, which is of course a possibility. Still though, he can’t smell anything that resembles unicorn down here. Newt’s got a good nose for the presence of creatures, and good eyes and ears for them too for that matter, and something about this just doesn’t  _ feel _ right. He watches as Graves pauses to bend down, picking something up off the floor and holding it in the palm of his gloved hand for examination. Newt can’t see what it is, but he watches as Graves pockets it and moves on. 

“Come with me, if you would please, Newt,” Ismail murmurs, and begins to walk slowly sideways, hand still outstretched. Newt, with one last look after Graves, follows closely behind him. It’s an opportunity to look around further, and they continue until they’re almost at the wall. The white-washed stone is bare and radiates cold, and Newt pulls his scarf a little tighter around his neck, tucking in his chin. He wonders how the muggles above are faring in this weather. Merlin forbid it actually snows. 

The edge of the room is devoid of clutter, but Newt can see something out of place halfway down, as though someone has set a fire against the side of the brickwork and then let it burn out. He squints into the darkness, lifting his wand, its tip glowing, to throw some light. Ismail lifts his gaze briefly to see what he’s doing, then returns to his study of the immediate vicinity. “You may go down as far as that mark,” he says. “But no further please.”

Newt nods gratefully, and moves past him. He heads towards the spot, Ismail following along more slowly behind him. Around halfway down the length of the room, the floor and part of the wall is blackened and burnt. Newt crouches down next to the markings, lowering his wand until it almost touches the brickwork as he examines the residue. It looks like soot, but the scent is off slightly. There’s more than just the remnants of a fire here, there’s the scent of something else, something musky and fascinating, something  _ magical. _ “Ibrahim,” he says. “Come look at this.”

Newt speaks just as one of the aurors calls out from across the other side of the room. Over the top of the nearest bench he can see Purslow and Luther standing at the far wall of the basement, their wands raised around the frame of a door that they’ve uncovered. Luther is reaching for it, to test the handle, and Newt can see the other aurors converging on the spot. He hears Ismail shout at the same time as Graves, both of their voices combined into a single word: “ _ No!” _

It happens quickly. Newt sees Graves draw up sharp, his wand rising, the first glimmer of a shield spell on his hand. He hears Ismail behind him in a rush of steps, feels the man’s fingers fist in his collar and finds himself being hauled backwards and down with unnerving strength. There’s a scream of magical discharge, a flash of darkness that knocks out every lumos spell, and Newt feels the shield that Ismail’s thrown up around them hiss and moan as it bounces a flurry of putrid hexes. The basement is plunged into deep darkness, and then there’s nothing but silence and bitter cold.

  
  


*

 

Graves staggers as he hits the ground, awash in malevolent energies and spitting mad. A tidal wave of fear and panic washes messily around the edges of his shields, already seeped in below where he failed to ward himself in time. He thinks, he desperately  _ hopes,  _ that he managed to redirect most of the assault’s energies onto his own magical armouring, but he can’t be sure. Damn Luther and his inability to think before acting! 

Through the nausea he forces himself to look up, trying to work out where he is. The last thing he felt was the rough mauling of an enforced apparition, coming hard on the heels of the initial wave of blinding, confusing curses that had flooded out from the boobytrapped door. It’s a neat and entirely unfriendly tactic for dealing with unwanted company. A nasty selection of panic charms chosen for their ability to disorientate, followed by an apparition charm that hits home in the resulting loss of the target’s focus. 

It’s flung him far from the cold basement and left him with no idea where the hell he is, fighting off the edges of a magically inflicted panic, half blind and trembling with rage. He finds himself suddenly on his knees as the kickback from the jinxes hits hard, puking and cursing between heaves as he gasps for breath.  _ Bastards! Someone is going to pay for this.  _ It’s a minute before he can haul himself back to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looks up and around at his surroundings.

It smells and feels like a back alley. He’s still in New York, of that he’s certain - for all its effectiveness, the trap had been only of middling potency. Set to disrupt and dismay rather than kill, its creators clearly well aware that the most likely people to set it off were going to be law enforcement. It’s one thing to trick an auror, quite another level of repercussion entirely to kill one. Graves stands and for a moment just listens. The sky above is visible between the walls of the alley; a clear, starlit night that’s sent the temperature plummeting well below freezing. His breath plumes on the air as he waits to see if he’s alone. From somewhere close by the wail of a baby rises into the night, and in the distance there’s the sound of a drunken brawl. A dog barks furiously, and a door slams.

Around him, silence. 

He gropes his way to the end of the alley, wand dark, trusting in his instincts to alert him to any danger, and finds himself on a poorly-lit street in a place he doesn’t recognise. 

And suddenly Percival is furious. It’s a blinding, white-out of rage, so cold and deep it burns out the remnants of the fear jinx still creeping around the edges of his defenses and clenches his fingers painfully tight around his wand. The first time he’s been out in the field on anything more serious than a speakeasy shakedown and it’s blown up in his face, with antics more befitting a goddamned amateur hour than an enforcement operation. And he hurts, Merlin’s balls but he  _ hurts _ . Old curse damage stirred up by the assault, the memory of broken bones and bitter hexes, from Grindelwald and the dark stretch of time he can’t even think about without breaking out into a cold sweat. It’s a bone-deep ache, a twisting in his sinews that grinds him down, even with Newt’s salve, and it’s miserable, it’s fucking  _ miserable, _ and it’s relentless too, unending like an ocean. He looks up to the unfamiliar skyline, at the architecture he can’t make out in the gloom, and then beyond to the patterns of the city written in life force and dirty city-darkened magic, and he doesn’t recognise any of it. 

His throat is tight with rage, with the grief of it. Of knowing that once he knew every inch of this city, from the blurred outskirts still clutching to their memory of the land before, to the heart of it dancing in Harlem stride time, he knew it all. And now there is nothing but an absence in his head. Not even a gap, just a singular lack of information where his knowledge stutters and fails. He has to breathe then, through the anger, the rage, the fear and the horror of what’s been done to him. To not even know how much is gone, that is the worst. That is what makes the fear coil tight in his belly, because if he can’t tell what’s gone, how can he ever find out how much has been lost?

The medal in his top pocket begins to vibrate, and he realises that he’s been dithering, thoughts still tangled by one of the jinxes. He shakes his head, clearing out the distractions. For all that rage can burn away fear it’s not helping him focus. He fumbles the medal from his pocket and squeezes it to stillness. The little charmed trinket is telling him that someone is trying to reach him, to check the notebook he has in his other pocket, to pay attention, to get a grip, to find out what the hell just happened. 

He pulls out his notebook and squints down at the most recent page. The message is a mix of auror code and private cipher, its meaning boiling down to:  _ where the hell are you? _

There’s other news too: _ all accounted for, all hale, no further danger. _

It should please him to know that the rest of the team escaped harm, that his last minute casting successfully redirected the primary burden of the trap onto himself, but he can still feel the rage shrieking in him, chasing its tail in the clench of his muscles and the need to  _ do something.  _ Retribution, he thinks, is not the auror way. But someone,  _ someone _ is going to pay for this.

Apparition is beyond him still. The jinxes have their claws in him yet, and he can feel that his grip on the fine threads of his magic is clumsy and untrustworthy. For all its simplicity the trap had been fiendishly effective. He is, in this as in so many things these days, ashamed of himself.

He closes the notebook, leaving its messages unanswered, stuffs it back in his pocket, and looks around for the nearest street sign. Then, slowly, painfully, and full of a simmering rage, Graves walks himself home.

  
  


*

 

The bullpen in Major Crimes is filled with a quiet buzz of angry murmuring. Anyone with a knack for curse breaking or dispelling has been drafted in to attend to the returned operatives. No-one is badly injured, except Luther who’s been intermittently gagging from a vomiting jinx for the past two hours, a condition which, in a sudden swell of vindictiveness, no-one seems willing to treat with any emergency. One by one the last of the aurors have returned home, most capable of apparating back from the places the trap had flung them, but a few too affected by dizzying jinxes to manage it. In all, the atmosphere in the room is tense and angry, aurors both frustrated and embarrassed by the whole debacle. 

Newt sits quietly next to the central map, watching the room and trying to avoid anyone’s gaze. The aurors are aggressively riled up and he has no desire to draw their attention any more than he has to. Next to him Ismail closes his notebook for the hundredth time, his lips thin, expression stern. Newt knows he’s been trying to contact Graves and receiving no answer for his troubles, but he’s gathered from Ismail’s curt replies that apparently this is not entirely unusual. The Director has his own ways of working off anger, and Ismail appears to have no concerns for his safety, even suspecting that the man had redirected half the spell trap onto himself.

“He can take it,” Ismail had said shortly. “Still, we need him back here  _ now _ .”

That had been an hour and a half ago. In that time the rest of the team has returned, and Newt has nervously begun to formulate his thoughts on what little they’d found before their enforced retreat. Because of Ismail’s swift reactions, neither he nor Newt had suffered from more than dirtied knees after they’d dived out of the way of the trap. It’s allowed Ismail to round up his aurors, draft in some help and begin unpicking what happened. Thus, back in the safety of MACUSA’s offices, the aurors lick their wounds, and Newt watches Ismail quietly and discreetly fret himself sick over Percival’s whereabouts. 

“He can’t be much more than two hours walk away,” Newt offers hesitantly. “I mean, Miss Alvarez said she was flung the furthest, and she got back ten minutes ago. Should we go out and look?”

“No, no.” Ismail shakes his head, tense and unhappy. There’s something more eating at him, Newt thinks, but the man won’t be drawn on what. “He’ll come back in his own time. He should be-” He cuts off, shaking his head as though he’d been about to say something he suddenly thought better of. “So what do you think, Newt? Could you find anything, from what little time we had.”

Newt thinks it’s guilt that’s making Ismail short, that and a peculiar, private concern for Graves that does more to make Newt fear for the man than any outright statement might have. Perhaps he has concerns for the man’s health? After all, there is something quite obviously physically wrong with the Director, he knows that much. Ismail raises his eyebrows at his hesitation and, pushing aside his thoughts, Newt pulls out his own notepad where he’d scribbled a few ideas. It had been nothing much more than an exercise in making himself look occupied, but the worn pages are a comfort in his hands. 

“I honestly don’t think it’s a unicorn,” he says, almost apologetically. “It just doesn’t  _ feel _ right. I- I know that’s not the correct methodology to base an auror investigation off, but I’ve worked this field nearly my entire life, Mr Ismail, and I’m certain of it.”

Ismail’s expression softens, and Newt relaxes minutely, aware that his reluctance to contradict a powerful auror, friend or not, has pushed him back into formality. “It’s quite alright, Newt,” Ismail nods. “As you say, you are the expert here. Tell me your thoughts.” Slowly he takes a seat and settles himself ready to listen.

“Right, well. Healing potions, yes? There’s a particular method for the preparation of Unicorn blood that allows it to be kept for longer. Now I know this sounds rather a lot like dark magic, but I assure you my knowledge of this subject is  _ entirely _ defensive…”

His thoughts have been two weeks in the making, and as he lays them out the rest of the auror team slowly begin to gather around him. He tries to find a happy medium between theory and getting his point across, aware that at least some of the men and women around him are probably far more advanced potions experts than he is. Just, not so much in this very specific area. “So, in short, going by what we  _ didn’t _ find down in the basement, as well as what we did, I don’t think this is a Unicorn. I actually think it’s probably a  _ Phoenix _ .”

“You’re joking,” someone says flatly.

“No, not at all,” Newt replies earnestly. “They’re very rare, but it’s not entirely outside the realms of possibility.”

Ismail holds up a hand for quiet. “And does this change how we should be going about this investigation at all?” he asks quietly, shaking his head and grimacing in concern.

“Some,” Newt nods. “I mean, Phoenixes aren’t as big as Unicorns, they require much less and different food, so you can hide one more easily. The smoke and fire could be a problem to conceal, and of course there’s the rather concerning issue of why it hasn’t simply removed itself from captivity. In fact, I am really very worried about it. We ought to hurry…”

“A Phoenix, you say, Mr Scamander?”

The gathered aurors turn as one, and an audible sigh of relief rises from them. Percival Graves comes striding across the bullpen, and all those seated rise to their feet to greet him. He looks cool, collected, but there’s something dark and dangerous in his eyes that makes the skin on the back of Newt’s neck prickle in anticipation. It’s an aura of intent, of magical bleed that only the truly powerful mage folk possess, and it’s a warning to anyone present not to play the fool. Newt swallows hard, and nods, and beside him Ismail leans back in his chair, the tension gone out of him. He seems to be the only one unimpressed by the Director’s entrance.

“Glad you could make it, Director,” he drawls, and Newt thinks  _ you cheeky bugger, you were almost sweating with fear for him a moment before! _

In fact, there’s a palpable feeling of relief from all the assembled aurors and support staff as the Director moves to stand at the head of the map board, looking around at his team. Newt takes a brief and somewhat startled moment to admit how dashing the man looks, then glances a little guiltily around at the rest of the gathered people. Now that Graves is back the tension that had gripped the room has dissipated, morphed into an eager determination whose focus is entirely on the man stood at the head of the table. It’s bizarre to Newt how easily everyone falls into line now that Graves is back, how no-one is questioning him even a little on where he’s been or if he’s okay. Does no-one think of it? He’s about to make an attempt himself, when the Director speaks.

Graves keeps his voice low, so that all those assembled have to close ranks to hear. He sweeps his eyes around the group as he speaks, drawing them all in as though entrusting them with his confidence. It works, for his aurors hang on his words, and even Newt finds himself drawn in by him. 

“What happened tonight was unacceptable. This team, all of you, are better than this. We were sloppy, and our mistake could have cost us far worse than our dignity. This,” he points a finger at the encircled aurors, “is our fault, and we deserved it.”

A ripple of discomfort and embarrassment passes through the surrounding aurors. Luther and Purslow, the two who’d been at front when the trap went off, don’t drop their gazes, and Newt reads determination in their expressions, an acceptance of the blame. Graves’ eyes linger on the pair of them, acknowledges their guilt, then moves on.

“Now, that having been said, no damned gang makes a fool of us. We find these bastards, and we deal with them. I want this case closed in time for Christmas, no excuses, no maybes. We’re putting an end to this. All of you, go home, get some rest, be back here and ready to go by seven. And someone sort Luther out.” Graves nods in the direction of the auror making a courageous attempt to cover his retching. “Dismissed.” 

Most of the aurors snap him sharp salutes with their wands, and those that don’t are already leaning in to their colleagues to discuss plans and next moves. The room is suddenly filled with excited chatter and a renewed sense of eagerness, and Newt shakes his head in wonder. How quickly balance has been restored. He looks to Ismail, still leaning back in his chair, trilby pulled low over his eyes and wonders what’s going through the man’s mind. This had been his investigation until Graves had swept back in and taken control. Ismail tilts his head back to look at Newt from under his hat, and gives him a quick wink. With a start Newt is filled with the suspicion he’s just had his thoughts read and found to be amusing, and he scowls at him in affrontment, all sympathy quickly forgotten. 

“Newt, a moment?”

He turns to find Graves at his side. The man looks as though he’s just returned from a leisurely sunday stroll, not spent two hours storming back through the streets of night time New York fighting off curse damage, and once again Newt finds himself unsure of just how powerful Percival Graves really is. “Uhm, yes?”

“I heard you mention a Phoenix, Newt. Yes? Good, does that mean you know how to track it?”

Somewhat taken aback by the abrupt questioning, Newt stumbles over his answer, feeling himself start to flush. He’s a trained magizoologist, and he should have the answers to this question at his fingertips, and yet under the Director’s unwavering attention he feels like a student again. This is  _ ridiculous _ , he’s been to dinner with the man, even fallen asleep next to him for Merlin’s sake! “I, uhm, well. Er, no, not really. I mean, how would I even do that? I think if I could just snap my fingers and know where every magical beast in the vicinity was, Mr Graves, then my life would be an awful lot easier!”

Graves gives him a flick of one eyebrow in wry acknowledgement. “What about if you had something to track?” he asks, strangely intent. 

Newt tilts his head in bewilderment and shrugs a little. “Well, I rather thought that was an auror area of expertise.”

“You’d think,” Graves replies drily, then reaches into his pocket and proffers something to Newt on one outstretched palm. It’s a small golden cufflink inset with a tiny green jewel. “What if you were looking for the other one to this, perhaps? What about your Niffler, could he do it?”

Newt gapes at him, eyebrows shooting up, and then shakes his head slowly. “I’ve honestly never considered it. I mean, I don’t know that he’s quite that specific, but, you know, I just don’t know? I suppose we could try and find out?”

Ismail has approached and is looking around Newt’s shoulder at the glinting cufflink. “I believe I missed you picking that up,” he says.

“A lot of things appear to have been missed on this case,” Graves replies coolly, and Newt draws in a shocked breath. 

Ismail merely lifts one corner of his lips in an amused smirk. “As you say, Director Graves,” he replies. “So, Newt. Your mischievous little friend, do you think he might be able to help us?”

Newt looks between the two aurors and blinks uncertainly. He can’t quite read the mood of them both, and feels as though he’s on very treacherous ground. Still, it’s a truly fascinating idea, and he has no doubt the Niffler will be at least interested, especially if he thinks he’s going to get the cufflink at the end of it. 

“Let’s find out,” he says.

  
  


*

 

It turns out that a combination of scrying spells, highly illegal for civilian magical folk to use, and the Niffler’s greedy little senses - particularly if you let said Niffler use a scrying device - will work wonders when attempting to locate even the most elusive of objects. 

“Huh,” Newt says.

The Niffler, strapped securely into an esoteric device brought out from one of Graves’ many glass cabinets, gives a frustrated squeak and tries in vain to reach through the device’s series of lenses to grasp at the cufflink that only it can see. They’re back in the bullpen, the early hours of the morning having stretched on into the hours just before dawn, standing around the map table. In the time since the suggestion was first made, Newt has been to Graves’ house and returned with his case, the Niffler has been extracted by a combination of bribery and swift maneuvering, and installed safely and securely in the scrying device. It sits now on a small platform, a strap around its fat little belly to hold it in place, and curses the infernal device that will show it what it wants, but will not quietly hand it over. 

“I suppose he could find anything,” Newt continues with quiet amazement. He’d been a little dubious about all this at first, particularly when the scrying device had first been brought out, but having examined it thoroughly for any evidence that it might cause even the slightest of harm to his beast he’d finally declared it safe. The long arm of the device, holding its intricate series of lenses, refocuses as the Niffler shifts, and the dot of light it projects down onto the map widens and then shrinks once more to pinpoint the correct location. “Well, as long as it’s something he wants to stuff in his pouch anyway.”

Graves, Ismail, and a handful of the more determined aurors who have chosen to stay behind and help, all nod thoughtfully in varying degrees of amazement, their reactions ranging from fascinated admiration to outright alarm. 

“Maybe that shouldn’t go in the next book,” Ismail suggests tactfully, and the expressions of those gathered indicate to a person their firm agreement. 

Graves leans in over the map, his fingertips smoothing across the city blocks around the marked out location. “We know this place,” he says softly. 

“The Lowestoft buildings,” Alvarez agrees grimly. “We should have known.”

“Perhaps,” murmurs Graves, his expression clouded. 

Newt looks from one to the other, not understanding what’s going on but picking up on their tension nonetheless. Clearly there’s history here. 

“We need to be careful,” Ismail says quietly. “We cannot simply barge in wands out, not there. That place is most definitely too hot.”

Graves glances over at Newt and silences them with a curt shake of his head. “Newt, thank you for your assistance with this. If you’d care to unstrap the little guy, he can go back in your case now. And I think it best if you were to return home, get some rest. No need to come in later, take today for yourself. We’ll call you if we need you.”

Newt feels his eyebrows rise at the abrupt dismissal. In truth he’d been quite ready to grab his wand and indeed go barging in, and this sudden change in plans leaves him confused. “Mr Graves, I can help-”

Graves holds up his hand to silence him, then lowers it to rest on Newt’s shoulder. “I understand your desire to help with this, Newt, but I assure you, there’ll be no rescue this morning. The plan has...changed. As they do. We’ll call you when we have the lie of the place. Until then…” He gives Newt’s shoulder a firm squeeze, and then turns away, summoning his aurors to him with a curt gesture. “All of you, with me now. Let’s go.”

Newt is left to watch the aurors disappear towards the elevators, their long coats swirling around their heels. They look purposeful, just on the professional side of angry, and he thinks to himself he’d never want them coming towards him wearing such expressions of righteous intensity on their faces. Very briefly he considers following them. After all, he has the location they’re going to right there on the map, but then he stops, restraining himself, remembering what happened the last time he was in New York. Still, last time had been the darkest wizard of the past century, and he’d gotten through that fine. Yes, he could do this, in fact, if there’s a creature at risk he-

“Hello, Mr Scamander. Do you need some help getting the little guy back out?”

Newt blinks around at the person who’s appeared next to him. “Uhm, I’m sorry?”

Harris. This is Harris, Newt remembers. The most junior of the Major Crimes aurors. Fast learner, very adept with his spells, like he’d have to be to find a place on the field side of this particular team, but still the newest and greenest and therefore the one most likely to be saddled with making the tea. He’s standing next to Newt now, smiling at him politely, no trace of tiredness in his face even though he, like Newt, has been up all night. 

“Your Niffler, Mr Scamander. Mr Graves said I should come and help you get him back in your case, then accompany you home. Just to make sure you get back safely after all this excitement.”

_ Oh, you bastard, Graves, _ Newt thinks. The auror is wearing the expression particular to people who know exactly how unwanted they are by someone, and are nonetheless entirely impervious to it. This man is here to do a job, and by Morgana he’s going to do it. Smiling weakly, Newt says, “Right. That’s, that’s wonderful. Just wonderful. Well then, I suppose you can give me a hand. I’m going to grab him, you unstrap that bit.”

With a nod, Harris moves to help, and grimacing in frustration, Newt begins to unstrap the still bitterly disappointed Niffler. 

  
  


*

 

It takes another week, despite Graves’ impatience to sound out where they’re going to be, to establish the gang’s new location. During this time Graves is taut, wound tight, sharp and angry and tense. Newt barely sees him, is not in fact certain the man even comes home some nights. Ismail too is distant, distracted, overworked, looking almost as tired and driven as Graves does some days. Newt spends his time pottering around in his case, which he carries with him each day to the MACUSA offices, emerging every few hours to see if anything new has come up. He affixes a note to the top of the lid telling people to knock, and leaves strict instructions on not trying to open it without his say-so. Alvarez lets him store it under her desk on the understanding that no-one would dare rummage through her private space anyway. 

Answering correspondence becomes Newt’s other primary task during this time. He receives a truly staggering amount of the stuff, ranging from communications from other academics to simple fan mail. It’s the fan mail that really embarrasses him. People send him the strangest things sometimes, some of which Newt considers entirely inappropriate. He even got a marriage proposal once, written on stiff cream card in language that might have been appropriate a century ago. To this day he’s not sure if it was serious or someone’s idea of a joke. The postcards though appear to have become a bit of a trend. Some witches and wizards take up travelling in their spare time out of boredom or necessity, and they’ve started to send him notes from their various destinations in the event that they spot, or think they’ve spotted, one of the beasts they’ve read about in his book. Newt is both excited by this, and a little concerned, but mostly excited and he’s started up a notebook of suspected sightings for his records. The aurors have started taking the postcards he’ll let them see - only those pertaining to creatures of MOM classification XXX or below, preferably below - and pinning them up on their noticeboard for everyone to look at. Newt, although pleased by their enthusiasm, nonetheless thinks they’re all slightly mad. Still, he leaves them to it since it seems to make them happy. 

He spends time with Tina and Queenie, lunch hours mostly, filled with interesting-looking pastries that Queenie brings along and Newt is far too tactful to query. Tina is burning up with curiosity and no little jealousy regarding Newt’s near-permanent stationing in the Major Crimes desk, to the extent he actually feels rather bad about it all. If there’s someone that ought to be up there in his place it’s her. So he fills her in with every detail he can think of, because Newt’s not an auror and this is  _ Tina _ for Merlin’s sake, and she tells him he shouldn’t be talking about any of this, but then doesn’t even try to stop him when he does because as long as he only talks about it to  _ her _ it’s fine. 

It’s from Tina that he learns the significance of the Lowestoft buildings. The administration aspect of the business interests of several of the major New York magical families are run out of them, and as such they’re not necessarily a hotbed of criminal activity, but it does imply their gang might have members with powerful links. 

“You’d need one hell of a warrant to raid that joint,” Tina muses with a grimace.

Newt decides not to take his newly acquired knowledge to Graves, certain that revealing his newfound understanding might reflect badly on his source, but still wanting to raise a few matters with him. Newt’s worked against powerfully connected smuggling cartels before, and, well, he supposes Graves has too. He’s director of MACUSA’s magical security after all, but still,  _ still _ Newt worries. Not that he can find the man to talk with him anyway. He sees Graves only when he emerges from closed-door meetings with his aurors, and the man is there and then gone almost immediately, striding out of the office without a sideways look. As the week progresses Newt starts to think the tiredness that’s showing on all the aurors is beginning to take a dismal turn. The scowl that Graves wears has become near permanent, and everyone is tense and snappy, overwork starting to show in the pints of coffee they consume, and the ever-emptying cookie jar.

Newt understands using sweet food as a crutch to get through long days, and in a gesture of solidarity he acquires a tray of the least incriminating-looking pastries Queenie can lay her hands on, bringing them into the office to set out in the auror’s kitchen area. It makes him an immediate hit with all of them, though from the depths of some of the reactions he receives he thinks a few of them are starting to show signs of stress-induced mania. 

It means he manages to catch Ismail alone in the canteen that same evening, picking out something which could maybe be called a mouse, or a mole, or a Niffler only if you  _ really  _ squinted. Newt cuts to the chase immediately, before the auror can vanish off, pastry in hand. “Ibrahim! I haven’t seen you for days. Not properly anyway. Or Mr Graves, I haven’t seen him either. He gets back so late I’m in bed by the time he’s back I’m sure. You’re uhm, you’re doing all right I suppose?”

Ismail looks sideways at him, and gives him a smile that does nothing to hide the tiredness in his eyes. “I’m afraid we make poor friends, and even poorer lovers we aurors,” he says strangely, and Newt blinks. 

“Uhm, yes, well. I didn’t mean to say, well, I’m not sure what you mean?” he asks, confused by the answer.

Ismail laughs softly, and claps Newt on the shoulder. “It’ll all be back to normal soon, my friend. Give it a few days.”

Newt returns home that night having seen neither hide nor hair of the man whose house he’s been living in for the past three weeks, and makes himself a paltry dinner of beans, bread and the last pastry. Without someone else around to cook for, or at least eat with, Newt rapidly slides back into the bad habits that have seen him through years of solo travelling. Not that he considers them bad habits, or that he’s been particularly  _ alone _ during that time, after all he doesn’t starve himself and there are over a hundred beasts in his case to keep him company, and that’s counting the various swarms as one creature each. Which he supposes, spoon hanging from his mouth in thought, is an  _ okay _ description for the layperson, but not really for a trained magizoologist which he of course is, and-...and he misses Graves.

The thought hits him all at once, and he winces beneath the shocking impact of it. 

Taking a moment just to examine his internal reactions, he prods himself mentally, slowly testing out the limits of this new realisation. He misses Graves being in the house. He misses eating the occasional  dinner with the man, and well, he misses talking to him. Just, the whole place feels so echoingly cold and deeply empty without him around. Merlin only knows how the man managed to enjoy living here on his own. Which he clearly did, at least, as far as Newt knows. 

Newt stares miserably at the Billywigs, watching them flutter and buzz around one another as they settle for the night, and wonders how much trouble he’s in. It’s never good to get too attached to people, because invariably they have no real interest in him beyond what’s polite and they soon make their excuses and leave him to his own devices. And of course Graves’ interest in him is entirely professional, he’d been ordered to have Newt stay at his house by the President of MACUSA for Merlin’s sake, not exactly an order he can refuse. No, that was entirely a work-related motive, so Newt can hardly call the man a friend. An acquaintance then. No, more than an acquaintance because they’ve been to dinner and spoken at length and even fallen asleep next to each other. And Newt’s invited him down into his case now, more than once, and one of those occasions wasn’t even anything to do with being in trouble. 

Newt isn’t used to having friends. There’s Tina, and Queenie, and there was Jacob, but he pushes that thought down and away as far too awful to think about. There’s, there’s not really anyone else. Ibrahim is very nearly a client, of a sort. The reason Newt’s now staying in the home of the MACUSA’s chief auror is because of him, and then only because he was answering a letter in a professional capacity. Can you call a man you’re more or less working for a friend? No matter how often he might pepper his speech with the words ‘my friend’ it doesn’t indicate that he  _ means _ it in any serious capacity. At least, that’s Newt’s experience of people anyway. And if he can’t call that a friendship, then how can he possibly refer to the strange relationship he has with Graves as one?

Newt looks down at the empty bowl in his lap and thinks  _ how bloody pathetic is this? _ Sitting on his own in someone else’s house, wondering if he’s brave enough to ask for a bit of his time. When did he become such a coward? The answer is obvious and comes sealed in an expulsion letter and the kind of societal disapproval that sears the soul. He lets the spoon drop back into the bowl with a clatter, and tosses the bowl down in disgust. It’s been a long time since he thought of that old incident. Longer than usual anyway. 

Well. Even if Graves isn’t exactly a  _ friend _ , Newt is here to help Ismail on a professional basis and Percival Graves is a part of that. The only way Newt can start really helping Ismail’s ‘mystery’ friend is if he actually gets up and interacts with him, and that’s not going to happen if he hides himself away down here. Think of it like a beast retrieval, he tells himself. No good gets done sitting around arguing about what’s going to help without even going and finding out from the beast in question. He makes a mental note to work hard on shielding that particular thought away from casual legilimency, and gets to his feet, dusting himself off. A glance at his watch tells him that it’s close to nine, and honestly Percival is usually still working in his sitting room at this point, so perhaps Newt can catch him and chase him off to bed in reasonable time if he can’t manage to work out a way of getting him talking. 

The house is as still and silent as ever. Newt goes down to the sitting room first to find it dark, the embers in the grate cold. The kitchen is similarly untouched since this morning, leading him to suspect that once again Graves simply hasn’t come home yet. Newt stands in the middle of the room and blows out a long breath. He himself is often up tending his animals until the small hours of the morning, but that’s  _ different. _ That’s not slaving away over paperwork stuck in an office, or stalking around the night time streets of New York tracking down dark wizards and criminal gangs, something that’s a damned sight more dangerous than anything Newt has in his case. He runs his palm over his mouth as he thinks. Does he wait around down here? Light up the fire, bring a book and hope to catch the man when he comes home? Would that be  _ weird? _

He’s still pondering this question when a flash of movement catches his eye. It’s the Kneazle, Misty, padding quickly past the kitchen door and off towards the stairs. Newt blinks after her, wondering where she’s going. Normally she sleeps curled up on Graves’ chair until the man comes home, bringing his warm lap with him, and the only time she really moves is to follow him around. If she’s headed upstairs does that mean Newt’s missed him, and he’s already gone straight to bed? He hadn’t seen a light on beneath his door when he’d come down, but then he’d not really been looking for it. 

The Kneazle is waiting for him at the top of the first curve of the spiral staircase when he follows her up. Upon seeing him, she waits until he’s within arm’s reach then pads off along the landing towards the second floor bedrooms. Maybe Graves is in after all, Newt thinks, and follows her. The two bedrooms on this level are reached via a small closed off adjoining room that keeps them private from anyone using the large living room at the opposite side of the landing. Graves normally keeps the door to this room closed, and Newt only knows his bedroom is through there because he’d been given the information in the event of an emergency arising during the night. 

Tonight the door through to the bedrooms is ajar, but he can’t see any lights on beyond. Cautiously, he pushes it fully open to reveal a small room with several doors leading off and a few incidental tables holding nothing but dust and photographs. The walls are hung with paintings that stir with gentle breezes across their landscapes, but no people that Newt can see. Misty is at the far end of the room. She’s standing on her back paws, reaching up to hook the door handle open and he hisses at her in horror. “Stop that! Get away!  _ Misty! _ ”

To Newt’s alarm she has the door open with ease, a not terribly impressive feat for a beast as intelligent as a Kneazle, and is slinking through before Newt can get anywhere close enough to grab for her. With a hiss of annoyance he hurries across the room, pulling up short before the entrance to what must be Graves’ bedroom. There’s no light on inside, and Newt can only see by the illumination spilling in from the landing. Frozen with indecision, he hesitates. Graves normally keeps these doors closed for a reason, and Newt knows from many offhand comments over the years that a not insignificant number of people consider animals of any kind in a bedroom to be a bad thing. 

“Damn it,” he mutters. “Mr Graves…? Are you in?”

There’s no reply, and the room beyond feels utterly still in the lifeless way an uninhabited room so often does. Newt can’t hear anyone breathing, and he can’t sense the presence of another person. Drawing up his courage, he pushes the door open with just the tips of his fingers. Nothing stirs beyond, and he hooks out his wand, lifting it high, tip alight.

Percival Graves is not there, but his room is not empty. Newt stops abruptly, surprised by what he sees. From her place on the bed, the Kneazle watches him, green eyes reflecting the glow of his wand tip as Newt passes the light across the interior of the bedroom. At first he’s not sure he understands what he’s seeing, and he frowns around at the apparent devastation, wondering if the place has somehow been ransacked. But then his gaze picks up on the complex order amidst the chaos, and he begins to comprehend.

Books lie stacked everywhere. The lettering on their spines glints in the light of his wand, speaking of laws and legalities, some basic, some with titles Newt can’t even begin to pick apart for meaning. There are boxes too, full of notebooks and files, folders and what look like case studies. Books on healing, on the magic of the mind, on memory charms in all their forms. And everywhere, pinned to the walls, placed in frames on the bedside cabinets, are photographs. They shift in the silvery glow, people and places, young and old, family and friends. He sees Graves in many of them, along with a woman around his age too close in facial features to be anything but a sibling. There’s Percival standing next to her, a swaddled baby in his arms, both of their smiles reflected in form and tilt in each other’s faces. Next to this a group photograph of a laughing gaggle of aurors, where a much younger Ismail stands, arm slung around Percival’s shoulders, both of them toasting the photographer along with their cheering friends. On the cabinet, next to a tiny clutch of dried flowers, a young man’s face looks out, smiling only slightly, from the cover of a funeral program. He’s wearing robes embroidered with military honours, and he is unmistakably from the same blood as Percival. Newt looks away in horror before he can see the name.

Everywhere he looks are memories held in stasis, recorded for a posterity that could never have anticipated just how much they would be needed. Newt is filled with a sadness that coils through his limbs and tightens his throat. This,  _ this  _ is confirmation of everything that Ismail has brought him here in desperation to solve. He looks over the decades of gathered memories and something in him shivers, aching for a loss he both fears and suspects.

He crosses the room in as few steps as he can, placing his feet carefully so as to disturb nothing, and reaches for the Kneazle. “Come on, let’s go,” he whispers, grabbing her by the scruff and lifting her into his arms. She doesn’t struggle, and Newt leaves as swiftly as he can, pulling the door closed behind him, shaken to his core and heart heavy with sadness.

  
  


*

 

The city is abuzz with the rumour of something afoot. Word has spread through the underworld that the aurors are on the prowl, the truly serious aurors, the ones you don’t want to cross. Doors close, streets turn quiet, heads are kept low. Graves takes to the backways of the city, the ones where the most secretive of the magical folk tread, and he follows the scent of corruption. It’s been too long since he did this, since he owned these streets and made them dance to his rhythm. He tracks like the hunter he is, running down old contacts and cornering them until they talk, in a casual display of power and influence. People sense his anger, and guilty or not, they talk. 

The days draw on, midweek moving through towards the close, and the most eager or perhaps cynical shops start to put out the earliest of their Christmas goods. Graves stalks the streets, tracking with and without his aurors, save for Ismail who trails along behind, an ever-present shadow with his mocking smile and sarcastic tongue. He doesn’t complain how Percival has taken this case from him, because that’s just the way it is, and this is an old and tired game between them. Percival has been told in the past that he’s a control freak, and to loosen his grip sometimes, but no-one tells him that these days because look what happened the last time he did. No, this way is what works, it’s what makes his department and his people  _ safe. _

During the day he speaks to victims of the gang, and doesn’t let their desperation move him, not outwardly at least. He’s been an auror too long to react to other people’s despair. He sifts through the statements Alvarez puts on his desk, using a touch of divination to find the ones that speak the most useful phrases. Graves is kind to these people, but his reputation and the weight of his presence is often enough to frighten them into silence. He lets Ismail or Harris talk to them then, people whose faces can wear more sympathy than his, whose eyes hold more warmth.

In the evenings he buries himself in paperwork and patterns, searching for leads, for hints hidden beneath the mounds of useless chaff, trying to pull apart the threads of how this all links together. He knows most of the major players now, and none of them surprise him. He sits in the post-midnight gloom of the MACUSA offices, only his desk lamp burning for light, with his whisky for warmth. His breath is on fire with it, his lungs burn, but in the cold hours before dawn he needs the kick of hard liquor to keep him going. He is alone, he is cold, and in the dark hours he lets the anger take him. It drives him to do better, to do more, to  _ get it done.  _ And afterwards, when he stumbles home at 3am he pauses on the landing and looks up the next curve of the staircase to the bedrooms beyond. He misses Newt. He wants to go up to Newt’s room and go down on his knees and beg him for something, for anything to quiet this bastard storm in his head. To be taken down amongst the beasts perhaps, hidden in his case and smuggled out of the country, or just to be taken away from all of this, to  _ anywhere _ . But he doesn’t, because he can’t, because this ridiculous clamouring for another person is nothing but the weakness of an exhausted body, and because he needs to be strong for MACUSA, for the city, for the aurors that need his example and the people that need his protection. Merlin, he’s so tired, so very tired. 

Victory comes on the sixth day, in the very early hours, in a small interrogation chamber facing a ratty little man who looks like death and smells of piss. “Tell me,” Graves breathes, and watches the man watching him, seeing himself reflected in the man’s dark eyes. Like a rodent before a poised Crup, the man stares in fascination at the auror that could end him if he chose to. He confirms a name, and a location, all things they already know. More importantly he confirms for them a time and a date, and just like that the plan falls into place.

They leave the informer in his cell for his own safety, and, flushed with triumph, Graves goes to gather his team. Now there will be a reckoning for what happened a week ago;  _ now _ he will have some peace. And if he even realises that the punishment he brings down on the gang addresses nothing but the symptoms of the despair that’s driven him to this edge, then he calmly ignores the fact. He’s doing this for his city, for his aurors, and for the people under his protection. 

  
  


*

 

Newt shivers in the biting cold of the December night air, and pulls his scarf tight around his nose. Frost limns the edge of every railing, and somewhere in the distance he can hear the gentle lapping of water. It’s deep in what muggles call the witching hour, and magical folk call three in the morning, or too bloody late for anything good outside of bed as one of the aurors cheekily commented. Newt’s not so sure about that. The stars are bright in the sky tonight, for a city anyway, which is contributing to the bitter chill of the air, and there’s a thread of unquenchable excitement beating in his veins. Tonight is the night they capture the gang and rescue what he still believes is a Phoenix. 

Once more Percival Graves stands next to him, breath pluming on the frigid air, his attention fixed on the warehouse across the dockyard. A team of fifteen aurors are out there in the darkness tonight, converging on the location from every angle. Like every auror they’re combat trained, but Newt understands these men and women to be of particularly fearsome reputations. He’s not sure what Percival uncovered during the last week, but clearly he’s taking no chances. And neither, apparently, are they.

For all that Graves has taken over the case, it became clear from the second very official auror briefing Newt attended this morning, that neither he nor Newt are to be going inside. Not until the dust settles at least. Newt understands from the muttering of the aurors that this is an unusual occurrence, but he doesn’t have the courage to ask why it’s come about. He suspects he knows the answer anyway - he’d noticed the silhouette of Seraphina Picquery behind one of the office dividers this morning, and seen the tightness in Graves’ expression afterwards. Newt really doesn’t understand what’s going on between those two, but in a fit of determination he’d resolved at the time to find out, once all this blows over of course.

“You’re to stay behind me at all times.” Graves had told him this grimly, once in the briefing room, and again just before they’d arrived. Newt’s not an easy man to scare, despite his unassuming nature, but there’s something cold and angry in Graves tonight, and  the edge to the Director’s voice had warned Newt not to push his luck with him. He’s disappointed really - he’d wanted to speak to Graves today, to maybe raise the possibility of sharing a drink with him in the evening thereby inserting just a moment’s rest into the man’s tight schedule, but then the announcement had come that tonight they would be the bust, and the opportunity was gone. 

When the fighting starts, Newt is not ready for it. He doesn’t even see the signal to move in, but he hears the snap and shriek of spells from somewhere within the warehouse, and knows from the alarmed shouting that this time they’ve found their targets. He winces as one of the walls shudders beneath the impact of someone’s magic, and beside him Percival tenses slightly. Newt can feel the tightly coiled energy in him, the desire to be on the inside too, no matter how cool the look in his eyes. He wants to talk, to make some kind of contact with Graves that’ll settle his own matching desire to take action, but he can’t think of anything to say that’s not already been answered in the briefing, and small talk is out of the question. 

Neither of them are expecting the explosion of light and fire that blows out a hole in the warehouse’s side. Newt finds himself pushed back against the wall beside them by Percival’s outstretched arm, the auror shielding him from line of sight. A rolling cloud of black smoke drifts out of the hole, and with it comes the bitter scent of combat magic. And something more: six figures stumble out through the haze and start to move across the dockyard towards the spot they’re sheltering. They’re not wearing auror coats, and Newt hears them calling to one another to make a break for it.

“Stay back,” Graves growls, and, stepping out of the shadows and into the dim starlight, goes to meet them.

For one moment, Newt obeys. It’s long enough to see the gang members draw up short as they realise who’s coming for them, and then lose their nerve and scatter in all directions. Newt doesn’t blame them - Percival Graves cuts an intimidating figure as he walks out into the open, confident and unflinching, cutting the unmistakable silhouette of MACUSA’s Director of Magical Security. But then the men split, casting their curses in the hope of distracting him long enough to make good their escapes. And this,  _ this _ is the type of fight that Newt knows and understands. 

Newt’s no coward, and he’s no stranger to a fight. Like every wizard that attended Hogwarts he’s received the rudimentary training in duelling from classes and school life both, and he knows how to use his spells in a fight. He’s fought, on and off over the years, even when he’d much rather not. He’s duelled when he’s had to, but this is the type of fight he really understands. It’s not the ritual and pretension of a duel, but the wild darkness of panicked, pitched battle, erratic and unpredictable in ways that only make sense to the people involved. It’s strangely intoxicating, though that’s not a thought Newt would ever admit to anyone but himself, even as he steps out of the shadows and follows in Percival’s wake. 

Graves moves like a rolling thunderhead of magical wrath, implacable and inexorable. He slaps curses out of the air with a flick of his wrist, sends a gang member slamming hard into a wall with a sharp gesture from his off-hand, and doesn’t break stride once. He notices Newt when the other man tangles the feet of one of the fleeing men with a lucky jinx, but he doesn’t order him back. For a brief second Newt meets his gaze and something wild and elated passes between them. It’s thoroughly shocking to be found so thrilled in the face of a scrap, and to have that emotion understood, but Newt shoves that thought aside to be considered later, or preferably never.   

Together they move towards the warehouse, and before they’ve even reached the still-smoking hole torn in the wall, all six gang members have been incapacitated. Graves takes hold of Newt by the fabric of his coat and shoves him unceremoniously to one side of the gap, pressing him back into the wall as he peers around through the smoke. “Wait,” he orders, and for a second Newt fears he’s going to be sent back to safety, but then Graves nods and steps forward. “Stay close behind me.”

The inside of the warehouse is smoke-filled and still sliced through with shouted spells and the yelling of the aurors as they corral the gang within. Newt stays close to Percival’s shoulder, covering the other man’s off-side. Graves doesn’t need his help, but he doesn’t turn him away either, letting Newt settle into a defensive position at his side. It’s comfortable and easy, and Newt’s surprised by how little communication there needs to be between them to fall into a two-person formation so smoothly. He supposes this is what you get for working alongside an auror with decades of combat experience to his name. And it means, despite the chaos and danger of the situation, that Newt feels no fear whatsoever. 

Graves walks them slowly through the warehouse, picking out a path between the hovering lumos spells the aurors have already cast up, following the sounds of the battle ahead. Already it seems that the fight is mostly over. Newt can hear voices he recognises shouting commands to one another, confirming arrests and reading rights. A figure moves out from between a row of tall crates to one side, and Newt recognises Alvarez. She doesn’t seem surprised to see either of them, greeting the Director with a sharp salute of her wand and nodding in Newt’s direction. “You need to come back here, we’ve found it.”

“The Phoenix?” Newt asks eagerly, starting forwards.

Alvarez pulls a face and shrugs. “I guess that’s what it is.”

As soon as he sees the creature, Newt can understand her misgivings. The potions gang have been keeping the beast in the centre of the warehouse, surrounded on all sides by tall walls of freight crates that serve to both keep it hidden and buffer the noise of their operation. The Phoenix is in a dreadful state, feathers turned brown with stress, tail almost entirely fallen out, and Newt actually gasps when at last he sees it. They have it chained, its beak bound, the silver bonds that loop around its legs ensorcelled with anti-magic charms explaining why it hasn’t simply vanished itself from captivity. Newt approaches with caution, and the beast turns tired eyes on him, following his movements with the disinterest of a creature without hope.  

“Is that..?” Graves asks softly, hanging back.

“Yes,” Newt replies shortly. “They’ve- he’s in very poor condition, but yes, this is a Phoenix. Hello, darling, it’s all right, I’m here to fix all this.”

Graves remains by the entrance to the crate enclosure, keeping guard, and with the utmost care and tenderness, Newt sets to work. 

  
  


*

  
  


Someone wafts a mug of strong, black coffee under his nose, and the scent of it brings Newt out of his doze with a start. 

“Tina! Oh! Thank you, I was just, ah, you know.”

Tina nods and sits down next to him on the waiting room bench. “I brought you something to eat as well,” she says, handing over a crinkling paper bag. Newt accepts this eagerly, hurriedly rearranging himself to make everything fit. “Do you know when you’re free to leave?”

They’re sitting in one of the small waiting rooms outside the interrogation cells, stark and austere, intended for functionality rather than comfort. It’s chilly and unfriendly in here, but Newt, exhausted and having not slept in the last twenty four hours, hasn’t even noticed. He takes quick sips of the hot coffee, oblivious in his tiredness to its lack of milk and overwhelming sweetness, and shakes his head.

“I’ve got to get Ibrahim or Percival to sign off on the form for the Phoenix, some kind of permit of acquisition, then I can officially leave the building with him.” He nods down at the case next to his feet. “I have him settled and sleeping, and I’ve got a few potions going which I’m hoping to give him by tonight, but I’d really like to get this paperwork done so I can forget about it. You know how it is.”

Tina does, and she nods emphatically. Six months in the wand permit office had instilled in her a vibrant hatred for the minutiae of Official Processes, one which she can’t very well admit considering she’d once thought she rather enjoyed paperwork. She looks Newt over and can tell from the pallor of his skin and the dishevelled look about him that he’s dragging with exhaustion. Experience of him has taught her that he’ll push it all aside for the sake of the Phoenix, and the best she can do is ensure he at least feeds himself while he works. 

“I guess Graves and Ismail are still interviewing?” she asks.

“Taking statements,” Newt agrees. “They’re not wasting any time about it.”

“They have to make sure they get solid reasons for keeping them in custody. Though honestly from what I hear that’s a given.” Seeing the querying look on his face as he munches his way through the sandwiches she’s brought, Tina continues. “They’d set up shop in the middle of a no-maj warehouse and were trying to hide in plain sight. Harris says they were probably operating on the pretense of being an opium importer, well, at least that’s what I heard. Anyway, they weren’t taking the proper precautions so they’re in a lot of trouble for potential exposure violations.”

“Well, that’s the least of their crimes,” Newt says grimly.

Tina’s not quite sure she agrees, but now is not the time to argue with him. Newt’s an affable fellow when you get to know him, but he becomes intolerably stubborn when tired or irritated, and she has no wish to deal with his infuriating logic when he’s not slept in twenty-four hours. She’s moving to change the subject when the door to the waiting room opens, and Ibrahim enters. He looks tired, but satisfied, and he’s carrying a folder under one arm. 

“Ah, there you are,” he says to Newt. Then, “Auror Goldstein.”

She gets to her feet and salutes him, still a little overwhelmed by just how many people of authority so often turn up in Newt’s vicinity. “Morning, sir. I’ll, uhm, leave you to it.”

Ismail closes the door behind her as she leaves, and sits down on the bench opposite Newt. “Right then, some paperwork for you, yes?”

Newt crumples up the paper sandwich bag and puts it in his pocket, dusting crumbs off his lap. “If you would, then I can go home and focus on the Phoenix.”

Ismail nods and opens the folder, pulling out a fountain pen from his pocket. Newt blinks with delayed interest at the device, and takes a moment to be privately amused by yet another example of the modernity of American wizards. Not that Ismail’s American of course, just gone a little local, but that particular opportunity for ribbing should probably wait until they’re both less tired and somewhat more calmed by liquor.

“You’re still staying at Percival’s for the time being?” Ismail asks without looking up. He begins to fill out a form, ticking boxes and scribbling notes in a neat hand. 

“Yes. For now. Until I’ve got everything settled. And then, well, I don’t quite know yet.”

Ismail hums an acknowledgement, and continues to write. He signs the bottom of the sheet with a flourish, marks a cross next to an empty box, then turns the folder and hands it to Newt. “Read and sign here, if you would.”

“And then the Phoenix is mine to do with as I please?” asks Newt, scanning his eyes down the page.

“Indeed. You will be sole guardian, fully responsible for its care and containment whilst on American soil.”

Although that could be taken as a warning, Newt is quite accustomed to such threats from authorities, and it washes over him unnoticed. Seeing nothing untoward in the fine print, he signs and dates the sheet, handing it back to Ismail. 

“How long do you think your Phoenix will take to recover?” Ismail asks, already filling out a copy of the form for MACUSA’s records. 

Newt shakes his head, “Honestly? I have no idea. As long as it takes him. He’s been very badly traumatised and I don’t want to rush his recovery. He deserves much better than that.”

Ismail hums an acknowledgement, still writing. “Will you remain in New York for much longer?”

Newt, watching him write, looks up to read the expression on the other man’s face. Ismail is concentrating entirely on the form and doesn’t return the look, but there’s something more to the question than simple small talk, he’s sure. “A little while, yes. I have another book signing and an author event to attend.”

“Hm.” Ismail finishes the duplicate and passes it over to Newt to be signed, before returning the completed form to his folder. “Here, you keep the first one for your records.”

Folding the paper into a pocket, Newt pauses, aware that Ismail is making no move to leave. Realising that the man clearly has something else he wants to discuss, Newt raises his eyebrows in encouragement.

Eventually, Ismail says, a little awkwardly, “I know this is probably not the best of times to raise this, and please be assured that I am not in any way trying to apply pressure, but it will set my mind at rest to know. Have you had any further thoughts about my friend’s...condition?”

Newt wants to sigh. Instead he holds Ismail’s cautious gaze, and tries not to be too irritated with the man. All this dancing around trying not to let slip anyone’s secrets has done nothing but confuse the situation and give Newt absolutely nothing whatsoever to work with. If he’d simply been forthright at the very start then Newt might have been able to make some progress, or at the very least come to a swifter conclusion for him. “Ibrahim,” he starts, then does sigh, as Ismail winces at something he hears in his tone. “Your…”friend”. We’re talking about Mr Graves, aren’t we?”

“Now, Newt, I can’t confirm anything of the-”

“No! No,  _ look _ , it really is quite obvious,” Newt says. “Please don’t try to obfuscate the situation any further, it’s really no help to anyone.”

Ismail has the grace to look chastened, and for the first time Newt sees him genuinely uncomfortable. “You must understand the delicacy of the situation,” he murmurs.

“Quite,” says Newt. “Yes, I really do. I was here last year, you know that of course. I’m not a fool, Ibrahim. I saw what Grindelwald did, and I know enough about transfiguration and polyjuice and all the rest of it to know you can’t just drink a potion and take on someone’s life like he did. There are, well, a lot of other things you need too. And I imagine they were entirely unpleasant to obtain.” Ismail shifts in his seat, ill at ease with the topic, but Newt presses on. “But I can’t start working on ways to help if I don’t even know who I’m helping. If I don’t even know to  _ ask _ him.”

“Please don’t do that,” Ismail says softly. 

There’s silence for a second, and then Newt breathes out a long sigh, shaking his head. “He doesn’t know you’ve told me.”

Ismail nods, almost imperceptibly. “Percival knows that I asked you for help with memory restoration, for a friend. As I never told you it was for him, he is currently unaware that you might have reached a conclusion regarding the identity of that friend.”

“Mr Ismail,” Newt says softly. “This is entirely unacceptable.”

“I perhaps could have handled this a little better-”

“I am not a mind healer, Ibrahim.”

“But you are the only person who hasn’t immediately said no,” Ismail says, leaning forward intently. “Newt, please. He’s had the best treatment available in New York, and it’s-” Ismail draws back, cutting himself off. He shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes with the fingertips of one hand. He looks as exhausted as Newt feels. “Please, my friend. We need a breakthrough. We need something, some hope. And you have worked miracles in the past.”

Newt lets his eyes slip closed. Having an auror for a brother has taught him that they are not infallible bastians of heroism, not all the time, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear the desperation in this man’s voice. “Nothing is simple, Ibrahim. There are no easy fixes.”

Ismail lets his hand drop, and then reaches forward to grasp loosely at Newt’s own. “I know that, Newt. But please, say you will try.”

Newt looks into his eyes and sees only earnest hope there. He resists the urge to pull his hand free, knowing the man means only to communicate his sincerity, and with an uncomfortable smile, says, “Of course.”

  
  


*   
  


 

The habitat creaks gently in the soft wind Newt has charmed up to play within the confines of the enclosure, and Graves looks up and around, making sure that it’s all secure before he lifts the flap of cloth and ducks fully inside. The temperature drops immediately, and he finds himself on the skeletal beginnings of what looks like a wooden walkway. Railings rise either side of him, following the wooden path to a rise of rocks in the center of the habitat. The tall canvas walls have the beginnings of a scene charmed onto them, very rough work that for now merely suggests the movement of clouds and the soar of distant peaks. This used to be, if his memory serves him correctly, the section Newt referred to as ‘The Siberian enclosure”.

Newt is standing in the shadow of the stone column, at the base of which a flat perch has been erected. He’s using a cloth to gently clean what’s left of the Phoenix’s feathers, dipping the rag into a small bowl next to the creature’s feet and then running it softly along the beast’s wings. For a moment Graves stands and simply watches, enjoying the peace and tranquility of the scene. Even without the habitat fully charmed up to its final state, the place has an air of calm about it that settles into his bones and makes his muscles ache with relaxation. It’s been an awfully long day. The raid on the docklands warehouse was only last night, but Graves has not slept since the day before that. The morning had been taken up with extracting as many statements as possible, and the afternoon with processing the captured gang members, fending off lawyers and dealing with the inevitable fall-out of such a public raid. It’s now close to nine in the evening, and despite the potions he’d slung back a few hours ago, he can feel the bitter ache of exhaustion in his bones. 

Graves had returned home to find the house empty. He’d fed the Kneazle, then set off for Newt’s bedroom, fully expecting the man to be down in his case. He’d guessed correctly, but apparently so had Newt, for the note on the case’s lid had told him to come down and join him as soon as he could. With the Kneazle perched on his shoulders, Graves had complied. Having left her to curl up on the chair in the shed, he’d stepped out into the habitats, and been almost startled by the immediate sense of peace the place instilled in him. He’s sure it says something unflattering about him that his reaction to being out of the office, and for all intents and purposes, out of New York, fills him with such overwhelming satisfaction.  

Quietly he follows the walkway up to the column of boulders, glad that he didn’t remove his coat, for the chill in here is noticeable. “Newt..?” he says, trying not to startle him.

“Oh, Mr Graves,” Newt replies, looking over his shoulder. “You made it, excellent. Come on, you can come up close.”

Graves moves over to one side so that he can see the Phoenix fully, then pauses a handful of steps away. The beast regards him with a deep intelligence in its golden eyes, and he resists the urge to raise his occlumency shields. Phoenixes are birds of peace and justice as far as his reading has led him to believe, and there’s no need to fear this one. Still, for the suffering it has clearly undergone, Percival wouldn’t blame it for any aggression it might show. 

“How is he?”

“As well as can be expected. They were keeping him in truly terrible conditions, you know. Absolutely barbaric. A Phoenix should never be bound in that way, and, well, I don’t really want to talk about what else, not in front of him. It’s all in my report, I wrote it and had it put on your desk.”

“Yes,” Graves says quietly. “I found it.” And read it too. The depths of depravity some people will sink to no longer surprises him, but occasionally he is reminded all over just how hateful people can be. There had been no redeeming reason for any of what the gang had been doing, from their human victims to their magical captive. Simply money. 

“I know you won’t prosecute for anything because he’s not a human, but perhaps you can do something with it. Some context for the rest of it, or  _ something.” _

“Yes, something,” Graves agrees, looking at the dull, patchy feathers, and feeling the fearsome intelligence of the beast resting its gaze on him. In truth there’s little he can do. There are few laws related to the treatment of non-familiar beasts, and even those that do exist are hard to really enforce, let alone prosecute under. “Perhaps that’s something you can change in future. With your book I mean. Public opinion’s a powerful thing, Newt, and right now, you hold it in the palm of your hand.”

Newt pauses in his gentle cleaning and looks back over his shoulder with a frown. “Yes, well. I intend to.”

Graves smiles tiredly, unsurprised by the determination in the man’s voice, and wanders a little closer. He daren’t reach out to touch the beast, that would feel entirely too much like presumption, but it doesn’t seem to react negatively to his continued presence. “You’re leaving now then?” he asks, and it surprises him how hard it is to keep the question light.

“Now? No, not yet.” Newt frowns at him then, and shakes his head. Graves has the feeling he’s not the first person to have asked that question and wonders who else has made claims on his time. Ah, of course, the Goldstein sisters. “I still have some signings to do, and I want to be available to help this chap heal up when he needs me. I’d rather not be travelling while I do that.”

Hope, unbidden and unexpected rises in Percival’s chest. He pushes it back down, despairing of himself. “Of course, you’re free to stay here as long as you want,” he says, keeping his gaze on the beast as Newt looks at him in something that might be surprise.

“Well, I, that’s very kind. I mean, it would be a help to have somewhere stable, just until he’s fit to be left for long periods. Thank you, Mr Graves.”

“Please,” he replies, after a moment. “It’s Percival.”

Newt smiles, and Graves gives him a stiff nod. Despite being invited to, Newt has never quite managed to overcome his British stiffness when it comes to forms of address, at least not with him. There’s silence then, and he watches as Newt returns to his careful cleaning of the Phoenix’s feathers. His movements are gentle and slow, a repetitive rhythm that soothes and calms the creature he’s tending. This close Graves can see the scarring on the beast’s raw skin where the gang bled it and plucked it for the healing properties of its body. Even though they’d never managed to make a pure potion from what they’d harvested they’d somehow still kept trying, for weeks. 

“How do you even come back from something like that?” he asks, almost to himself.

“He’ll burn himself up,” Newt replies. “In fact, I’m a little surprised he’s not done it yet. He’s a Phoenix after all, it’s what they do.”

Graves thinks of it, of the flames and the restoration. How the beast might burn away all that’s happened to it, leaving it behind in a pile of ashes that could be swept away and forgotten. To be reborn whole and anew, ready to try again. “If only it were so easy for everyone,” he says, and hates the rasp in his voice. By Morgana he is tired, so very tired.

Carefully, Newt sets down the cloth, strokes a kind finger along the top of the Phoenix’s skull making it lean into his touch, and then turns to look at him. “Would you like to tell me about it, Percival?” he asks mildly.

Standing at the edge of the chasm, the drop yawning at his feet, Graves feels the pull of inevitability like the tidal grasp of the moon. How long can a man resist the tide before he is overcome? How long can he hold his breath before he must breathe? How much can he drink before drinking turns to drowning, and will he even know when it does? He feels Newt’s question like a break in the clouds that lets a climber glimpse the peak, a sudden hope, enlightenment and freedom. 

“Yes, I-, I think that would be...good. Yes.”

He can feel himself nodding, like this is some kind of operations meeting, a business transaction, like he’s following a procedure and for all the occasional stiffness that amuses him in Newt he wants to scream at himself for doing the same. Newt moves off behind the perch and when he returns he has a flask of tea and a blanket. He sets this out beneath the Phoenix’s perch with a snap, and then with a crooked smile up at him says, “I put some heating charms on it. It gets a bit nippy in here. Um, sit down and I’ll make another cup for us. Only got one you see, that’s all I need normally.”

Graves sits, and he’s too tired to feel how ridiculous all this is. How stupid he must seem, what a poor show he’s putting on. Director of Magical Security indeed, making a fool of himself in front of this man. “I’m sorry,” he says, as Newt sits down next to him. “I’m very tired.”

Newt transfigures the inner cap of his flask into a second cup and fills it with tea. The steam is fragrant and sweet, and Graves doesn’t even mind that he’s dumped it full of milk. “That’s all right,” Newt replies. “We all are I think.”

They sit in silence then, both sipping the hot, sweet tea. Newt leans back against the stones and stretches his long legs out before himself, and Graves hesitates, hating how much his muscles hurt. He can feel a tremor in his hand and he shifts uncomfortably to hide it.  _ Exhausted _ , he thinks.  _ This is insane, I can’t even think straight. What am I even doing? _

“You know, it’s just us here. You, me, Feathers, the mountains. We can all keep a secret. It’s going to be mountains in here by the way, when it’s done. They come from the mountains do Phoenixes. They live very high up, right on the peaks if they can, where no-one can reach them. So yes, just us three. And none of us speak to anyone else very often, so there’s that.”

Percival lets his eyes slip closed, and feels the gentle ruffle of the breeze across his forehead. It’s cool against the heat of his skin, and soothing like a cool cloth against the throbbing in his head. He has a choice now, to take up this offer of Newt’s, this chance at confession, or to turn away, back to the empty house, the cold of it, and the unseeing eyes of the hundreds of photographs that will watch him through the night until the morning. He doesn’t know where to start, or even how, but in the end he tells Newt everything. 

He sits with Newt long into the night, and once he starts talking, the words spill out of him like a flood, like he’s sick with them, and perhaps he is. The story wanders and cuts back on itself, jumping backwards and forwards as he remembers to add a reason why to his actions, or sometimes just to make sure that Newt understands. He’s not a weak man, or a clumsy man, but he made a mistake once and now he doesn’t know how to fix it, how to even begin. He was a fool, and he was a victim, and he’d never thought he’d ever be either of those things.

Three months, they’d told him. Three months in captivity while Grindelwald wrought his secret havoc, and Graves remembers each and every day of it. An irony considering how much else he’s lost. To impersonate someone so fully, so completely, he tells Newt, you must  _ become _ them. You do it by taking their memories and eating them, taking them into yourself until they become yours, and you can react with all the authenticity of having experienced that which the person you’re replacing did. So good that not even those closest to you can tell the difference. But it leaves your victim bereft, the loss is permanent because you’ve consumed every last drop of what they remember, and done it time and time again. Still though, you don’t drink the entire barrel. You take sips of the most important bits. You don’t take spells or charms or curses, because you can already cast those. You don’t need an in-depth knowledge of laws and cases because there’s always a fool willing to overlook a temporary slip on your part. No, you take the really important things. The little things.

The colour of your sister’s eyes, the names of her children. The number of sugars Alvarez takes in her coffee, and the name of the baker you buy your breakfast from each day because you’re never awake enough in the morning to spell up your own. You take the memory of which set of tie pins you favour the most, and why. How you met your best friend, and how you came to work together. The secret words you say to each other that mean  _ Picquery’s coming, _ or  _ I’m joking really,  _ or  _ you old bastard, I still love you even when you make me bleed rage.  _

“One of the first things I did when I got back on the job was go and find Ismail,” Graves says. “He’d had him sent away to Russia of all the damned places. I went personally to bring him back. I think I hoped somehow that seeing him in the flesh would restore some of what I’d lost. That I’d remember this man who was obviously so close to me. I didn’t, Newt. I looked him in the eye the first time I met him again and I couldn’t remember him. This man I’d spent twenty years with. Running a department. Being friends. The times we’d nearly died together, done stupid things, clever things. Friends for decades, and I only knew his name because someone had told me.”

It goes on, the litany of loss. Unstoppable now that he’s started, unforgiving in its rawness, painful in its honesty. Newt leans back against the stones, his head tilted towards Percival, silent but listening. 

He knows that his parents are both dead, but he can’t remember the funeral. He’s seen the pictures; they’re beautiful. He’s watched himself throw dirt on their coffins, over and over. He had a brother once, younger than him. He remembers holding his sister’s hand when they buried him but he doesn’t remember receiving the news he’d died or even how. He’d worked it out from funeral programs and newspaper clippings. War hero. Other things. Newer things. He doesn’t remember holding his oldest nephew for the first time, but there’s a photograph of him stood next to his sister, her firstborn in his arms.

At some point the Kneazle makes her sauntering way into the habitat, crossing the walkway to come and sit in his lap. He can feel the Phoenix at his shoulder, the heat of its feathers still apparent despite the tremendous suffering it’s endured. He talks until his voice is raw from it and is shocked suddenly to find himself weeping. “I’m sorry,” he rasps, striking away the errant tears with the back of his hand, embarrassed at his lapse of control.

“It’s all right,” Newt says. “Percival, think nothing of it please.”

At some point, he’s not sure when, he leans back, fist pressed against his lips as he fights himself for calm, and Newt puts an arm around his shoulders, drawing him ever so gently back and into his side. It’s such a tender, unusually tactile gesture for the normally reserved magizoologist, that it almost unmans him again, and he closes his eyes to stop himself from doing something unforgivably weak. He’s wept enough these last months, wept and raged, alone and with the ever more sombre Ismail at his side, that he cannot possibly bear to inflict this unbearable inability to cope on another person. 

“Do they know?” Newt asks mildly.

Graves could lie, he could pretend that he doesn’t understand the question, but they both know exactly what Newt means. “No,” he confesses. Shocking. An unforgivable transgression for a man of his position to make. Still, no-one has questioned, because no-one ever does. “Just myself and Ibrahim.”

If he expects judgement, then he is to be disappointed. Newt holds his tongue for the longest time, sipping at his tea, and then awkwardly pours more for them both left-handed. Percival accepts it without comment, and waits. He feels scoured clean inside, not so much lighter as more clear. The weight of it all remains, but the intricacies have been unwound some in the telling, and parts of it feel almost reasonable to him. 

“What a bloody awful thing,” Newt says finally. “I’m sorry, Percival. I’m truly sorry.”

Percival, exhausted and spent, can think of nothing more to say. A part of him, buried deep and held tightly in check, shifts longingly at the concern he hears in Newt’s tone. It’s good to speak of all this, a release in a way he’s always shied from with the professional listeners he’d been plied with in the months after his return. This though, this is different. This is calm and acceptance. This is….good.

He leans into the warmth at his side, just a little, wanting more but not daring to ask, and when Newt gently, ever so softly, begins to stroke his fingertips through his hair in long, soothing motions, Percival simply closes his eyes, and drifting, lets him do it.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise you. I _promise_ they are together by the end of this fic.
> 
> Also, is it worth just naming the chapter with the beast involved? I was going to, then I thought nooo, you said it was a unicorn and then it's suddenly a plot twist that it's not, but only a minor one...eh. Thoughts?
> 
> But also, I warn you, I'm off on holiday for 4 days now to a place with incredibly dodgy internet connection so if I'm not replying to comments that's why. 
> 
> As ever, I hope you're enjoying the ride, thank you so much for reading. :]


	5. Kneazle, A clever companion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which both want to, and neither dare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me, this is a long chapter, and it took time. :]

Christmas settles across New York, bringing with it a blanket of snow, and the city lights up with festive cheer against the bitter cold of the season. Newt spends what’s left of the run up to the holiday answering his ever-growing pile of mail, recording his statement regarding the recent raid, and caring for his newly acquired Phoenix. No-one will promise him that he won’t have to stand up in court and testify regarding the potions gang, but Ismail seems to think it unlikely. Newt dearly hopes so; as much as their actions enrage him he can barely cope with book signings let alone court proceedings. The very thought of having to stand up and testify in a foreign court makes him tremble with nerves, and although of course he’d do it the whole mess looms over him like a lurking boggart.

Despite this, life goes on. The Phoenix becomes his focus, its lethargy slowly draining away to be replaced with the fiery spark that had been so shockingly absent when they’d first recovered the beast. He doesn’t get his MACUSA stipend any more, since he’s no longer actively advising on the case, but due to advances on his book, Newt is hardly without resources in the first place. Besides which, Graves continues to put him up without question.

In the days after Percival’s confession, Newt had been prepared for embarrassment or awkwardness between them. He understands all too well the discomfort involved in allowing another person to witness a private vulnerability, and for a man like Graves, one of the most powerful wizards in North America, the risk of it too. But there’s nothing of that nature. Instead, there’s a calm understanding between him and Graves now, as though in finally speaking his mind a tension has gone out of the auror, replaced with an acceptance of Newt that Newt himself is at once pleased, and, a little overwhelmed by. He doesn’t fully understand the man’s new regard for him, but he senses that somehow he has been judged and come out the other side a trusted confidant, rather than an unlucky witness to an unfortunate lapse of willpower. It fills him with a strange sort of nervous energy, a sensation that he can’t quite place, and isn’t as yet sure that he entirely likes.

Christmas eve morning dawns sparklingly cold and bright, and Graves travels out to the country to celebrate with his sister and her family. Newt doesn’t pry, but he can’t help a certain concerned curiosity regarding how that’s going to work. If Newt is one of only three people to know the extent of Graves’ predicament then the risk of the secret getting out when confronted by people who know him so well is certain to be high, and the fall-out could be dire. Percival must read something into his expression when he announces his plans - interest, worry, even wistfulness perhaps - because there’s an awful moment where Newt thinks he might be going to invite him along. With a sharpness he doesn’t really intend, Newt puts a stop to that possibility by claiming a prior invite to the Goldsteins’, which, to be fair, isn’t even untrue. It leads to a moment’s awkwardness between them, but ultimately, Newt is not ready to go inserting himself between Graves and his family, even accounting for the absurd possibility that Graves is. They part, Graves giving him the run of the house, and promising to be back in a week.

It’s a strange situation, Newt thinks to himself later on, as he dresses up in his best robes, ready to spend the evening with the girls. He wonders if he really ought to have moved out after his part in the raid was complete, if perhaps he’s overstaying his welcome here. He’s not sure that he’d realise if Graves was trying to get rid of him, the man is so courteous and difficult to read at the best of times. Surely he’d be direct? Surely he’d not hesitate to move Newt on if he felt crowded by him? But still, this gentle acceptance of one another at which they’ve arrived cannot be something only Newt experiences, he’s sure of it. Or is he? Closing his eyes with a sigh of frustration, he forces the familiar anxiety to one side, and deliberately moves his thoughts back to the evening’s celebrations.

Spending the holiday break with the Goldstein sisters is better than Newt could have hoped. They keep it small and private, just the three of them, and fill their days with food and music and laughter. They play cards, at which Queenie cheats unashamedly, and exchange gifts, and sing along to whatever song can be coaxed from the battered wireless until late in the night, merry on brandy and port. And although Newt is painfully aware that there’s a person missing, he says nothing, even when Queenie brings out a spectacular cake decorated in glittering frosting reminiscent of snow and Occamy scales and sets it down with a flourish. There’s a sadness to that whole situation he just can’t bring himself to face, and with which he struggles to find reconciliation. A not insignificant part of him fears that if he were to confront it head on then he might do something entirely regrettable and outright illegal which would most likely serve to make the whole thing much worse rather than better. And so he leaves it well alone, and pushes aside the stray thought that wonders what muggles do on Christmas day if they have no family around them.

Boxing day sees Newt and Tina taking a walk through Central Park to stretch their legs and admire the snow. Queenie has discreetly excused herself from their company to run errands of her own, and although both of them know where she must be, neither of them mention it. Instead Newt teaches Tina about the origins of Boxing day, what little he knows of them, and no of course it’s nothing to do with fighting, whyever would you think that? They follow the water’s edge, watching the skaters on the lake, and to Tina’s amusement it’s Newt who demands they take a turn themselves. He regrets that later, for Tina’s no slouch on the ice and promptly skates rings around him.

Afterwards they walk home, wrapped up tight against the cold, enjoying the gleam of the festive storefronts and the decorations strung gaily in the windows. Newt is thinking to himself how much he’s enjoyed the afternoon, and how good it is to have friends. How remarkably blessed he feels these days, leading a life of fulfillment beyond anything he’d ever imagined for himself. And then his bubble of self-satisfaction is pricked when he glances into a tailor’s display and the blue of one of their neatly folded scarves reminds him sharply of Graves. He wonders how the man’s doing fending for himself against his family, and that leaves him dwelling on the thought of his absent friend, and the awful situation in which he’s been left.

It comes to him all of a sudden that he misses Percival, that he would have liked to have sat down with him as easily as he did with Tina and Queenie to celebrate, and that he’s felt this feeling of wistfulness for the man’s company before. With a frown, Newt pushes the emotion down and away. Percival Graves is an interesting man, that point he’s willing to concede to himself, though the pair of them are on entirely different paths. Percival’s a wizard deep in his magical prime, when age and experience have combined together to form a coherent and powerful whole. He’s a formidable man, both by will and reputation, and an upstanding member of the magical community. Newt? Newt is just a field Magizoologist. Clever with his beasts, but not a great deal else. They are the two of them too different, he thinks. And too different for what? Merlin, he doesn’t even know.

“Newt?”

He almost jumps, then meets Tina’s concerned gaze with awkward guilt. A tiny frown pinches at her features as she tilts her head in query at him.

“Uhm,” he says, trying to think of an acceptable deflection for her curiosity. But then he sees the softness of her gaze, and the genuine concern there, and he is reminded that this woman is his friend. He was just this minute congratulating himself on having a few of those, for real, and his immediate impulse when put on the spot by one of them is to deceive. That simply cannot be right.

“I was just thinking about-...about friends. You know? How-...it’s good, isn’t it? To have friends.”

_Idiot._

Tina’s mouth pulls into a small, self-conscious smile, and she looks away. He’s not sure precisely what she’s thinking, but he can imagine. There had been a time when the both of them had drifted close to something that might have been more than friendship, born of excitement and the wild rush of deadly escapades, and perhaps, had Newt been less of a wanderer, easier to pin down, more certain of himself, it might have become something more solid. But the months apart had given them both time to draw back, and neither of them had raised the possibility again, and eventually, thwarted by their mutual timidity, what might have been had settled into what never would be. Newt’s not sure what he thinks of that, preferring not to think of it at all if possible, for everywhere he looks he feels like he’s managed to fail _someone._

“It is good, Newt,” Tina says quietly, and runs her fingers over the new purse that had been Queenie’s gift to her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

At first he takes the words at face value, and then he pauses. There’s something more, just below the surface, and it makes him think that he’s missed something vital somewhere along the way. He hopes, desperately, that she’s not taken offence at the topic. “I just meant that, well, I-, I’m not. I don’t do this very often, really. At all. I just-”

“Newt, it’s okay. I understand.” Tina half turns to face him as they walk, and her smile is honest. Newt is both reassured and stymied by it. It’s not okay, not really. Everything is a mess of half-formed possibilities that went awry and fizzled out, leaving behind an uncomfortable guilt that he simply doesn’t know how to process. He’s trying to speak to her honestly, as a friend, and he can’t get the words out. He needs advice, and he can’t take this to Queenie because she’ll simply pluck the thoughts out of his head and although that might sound like the ideal option the very thought of it makes him squirm. He doesn’t know himself what’s going on in his head right now, so having someone else lay it all out and pore over it before he can put the words into some kind of order is simply unacceptable.

“I wanted to tell you this earlier,” Tina says suddenly, “But there wasn’t really a good time. I’m not trying to hide anything, I just-” She shakes her head slightly, and Newt dips his chin in confusion. She smiles at his expression, and it’s both fond and guarded. When she speaks her words come in a sudden rush, as though she’s forging ahead against her better judgement. “I’m seeing someone in one of the other teams. Well, not seeing them precisely, but, that’s where it’s headed. I think. I…hope.”

Newt is astonished by this news, and then, in a sudden rush of relief, delighted. At least one of them has had the courage to take a step forward. That it should be her is hardly surprising to him, for Newt is well aware of his own limited desirability as a lover. “Well, I-, well that’s fantastic! Who is it?” he asks, and finds his lips curling up into a mischievous smile that he knows will make her blush. He is rewarded by the slight pinking of her cheeks and the tumble of excited laughter that follows.

“I think you’ve probably met him,” she says, after a moment. “It’s John. John Harris.”

Newt does know him. Tall and blond with a boyish smile, the Major Crimes team’s newest member is of course a frequent sight around the bullpen. He’s a decent enough chap, as far as Newt knows, although he somewhat suspects a tendency of Harris’ superiors to assign the man to keep an unobtrusive eye on Newt himself. And of course certain things do start to make sense now, such as Tina’s source of occasional inside information.

“Yes, I know John,” Newt says. “He’s a good man.”

Tina smiles at him, relieved and, he thinks, grateful that he’s not going to make this difficult. They walk in silence then, passing storefronts full of busy people all released from the confines of their homes after the excitement of celebration. Newt thinks again of Percival, and what he must be doing. If he’s happy, or struggling perhaps to find his place amid a family he barely recognises any more. Newt winces, and shakes his head at himself.

“Newt?”

“Oh, sorry. I was just-...” _Stop it,_ he chides himself. _Stop trying to deflect her._ “Well, it’s hard, isn’t it?” he continues quietly. “To know what the right thing to do is. Sometimes, I mean it’s not always clear, is it?”  
  
Tina blinks, and then looks away again. Newt can read worry and surprise in her expression, and knows that she’s struggling to place the source of his distress. He suspects she thinks he’s speaking of the two of them. “It’s just, with people,” he tries, struggling to find the words. He so desperately wants to put her at ease, but also to seek her advice, without saying anything that might cast aspersions on Percival. The very thought of revealing the Director’s secrets makes him shiver. He couldn’t bear to the one that let slip such sensitive information.

“When they’re, you know-” Having problems, needing help, being impossibly good friends when they have no real reason to do so. “Friends,” he finishes helplessly. “You never quite know when you’re overstepping the limits, do you? Or do you? Do you, Tina? I mean, how do you know such a thing?”

Tina looks at him strangely, and frowns. “Newt, is there something bothering you? You know Queenie and me, we love having you over for the holidays, and I know you might have gone back to your family instead-”

“Oh no, no not at all. They’re quite used to me being away. It’s not that at all,” Newt waves off the idea.

“Then what, Newt?”

Newt can feel his pulse fluttering at the base of his throat, the right words tying up his tongue into so many awkward knots. This is always what happens when he tries to speak of difficult issues, the sentences that are so clear in his mind getting tangled up somewhere between his thoughts and his mouth. He wants to say _how do you know if you’re smothering someone? How do you know when you should back away? How do you ever know if you can trust them?_ _How do you know, how do you even know them at all?_ Instead he says, “I just don’t want to be a bother.”

“Newt…” Tina says softly. “No-one thinks you’re a bother.”

He smiles weakly at her, realising that he has squarely defeated himself, and shrugs. “Well, if you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure! Newt, listen. Queenie and I, we really appreciate you sticking around over the holidays. I mean, I know you’ve got work on with the Phoenix still, and tying up the case, but it was good of you to stay and help out with things, especially since they’re so awkward right now. I know it’s hard not to say anything.”

Newt lifts a confused eyebrow at her, frozen by the awful thought that somehow, _somehow_ , he’s let something slip that he ought not to have. Tina shakes her head at his silence. “You know, what with... _Queenie_ , being...happy. You know.”

And then he does know, all of a sudden. Jacob. She’s talking about _Jacob_.

“I...yes,” he says softly. Jacob’s loss still hurts. That America can be at once so modern and yet so backwards in its attitudes towards Muggles confuses and upsets him. Friends are friends, surely, no matter if they’re magical or not. He looks down at his feet, using the distraction of negotiating an ungritted section of the sidewalk to cover his dismay. Friends are hard to come by, and Jacob’s face, confused and rain-streaked, still hurts him deep inside. You shouldn’t have to lose friends in that way, it’s so unfair, just-...so unfair. He wonders suddenly if he gets attached too easily. If the slightest bit of affection or attention is enough to render him completely under someone’s spell. He doesn’t think so, he refuses to believe that of himself. But then he’s always been the outsider, and the chance to be the one standing within the circle of friends for once, accepted and welcomed, Merlin how pathetic. He’s a grown man, not an adolescent boy still struggling his way through acne and first kisses.

Tina must misread his expression, for he can hear the grim apprehension in her voice when she speaks. “I’ve tried to talk to her, Newt. But she won’t listen to me. And she’s my sister, what can I do?”

Newt twists her a brief smile, and shrugs. He’s no sound source of advice on family relations, nor on the adherence to society’s more ridiculous rules. “Let her be,” he says. “It’ll all work out, Tina, don’t you worry.”

The smile she returns him is more a grimace, and hesitantly Newt touches his palm, just briefly, to the small of her back, a gesture of reassurance that he doesn’t himself feel. They walk home together in the snow, their silence companionable as they pick their way across the icy sidewalks. He leaves her at the front door of her building, claiming the needs of his beasts, but mostly feeling a disconcerting swell of gloominess that he cannot shake. Tina must catch something of his mood, for she plucks at his sleeve as he turns to leave, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, enfolds him in a stiff hug. The strength of it surprises Newt, and he almost pulls away, unused to such close contact in such a public setting. Still though, after a moment he settles his hands on the back of her shoulders and returns the embrace with a gentle squeeze.

“Don’t be a stranger, Newt,” she says. “And don’t ever feel like you’re bothering us. You’re our friend, and you’re always welcome here.” She pauses, just for a beat, and then adds,  “You’re a good man, Newt Scamander.”

He takes the words with him back to Percival’s cold house, lighting the fire in the sitting room and brewing himself a pot of tea before taking a seat in front of the crackling flames. Misty jumps up onto his lap, her feline eyes gleaming as she flicks him a glance, then curls herself into a tight ball across his thighs. Newt settles back, teacup in one hand, his other absently stroking at the long silver fur of the Kneazle’s back. The house smells subtly of the fragrance he’s come to associate with Percival: smoke and faded ritual incense; the lingering scent of firewhisky that somehow still hangs on the air, and the whisper of his cologne clinging to the fabric of the armchair. Newt breathes in the scent of it and then shifts a little uncomfortably as he realises what he’s doing. He hadn’t been fully conscious of just how much he liked the cologne.

He frowns into the flames and winces slightly. Newt may be unlucky in love, he may be awkward and shy, but it doesn’t mean he’s immune to the effects of an attractive person. Man or woman, when it comes to the physical, Newt likes _people_ , and Percival is certainly an attractive _person._ He closes his eyes in dismay, and pushes the idea from his head. No, no - he’s not going down that route. That’s ridiculous, and even the thought of indulging the idea in private steers far too close to disaster for his tastes. No, not a chance. Not ever. No.

The Kneazle opens one green eye and looks up at him. Newt rubs the back of her ear absently, and shakes his head. No, Newt is perfectly happy with what he already has - anything more would be presumptuous and greedy, and quite honestly doomed to failure. A powerful and charismatic wizard like Percival Graves is unlikely to settle for someone like Newt, no matter how he might have lowered his defences once to allow him the intimacy of a confession. Everyone gets weak sometimes. Besides, Newt is most likely leaving soon, having come to the limit of a reasonable business stay - any longer and he’ll have to start applying for special immigration permissions. The thought makes him smile wryly. How his family would howl if he were to do that. And yet the fact remains that he’s not been able to accomplish one of the primary reasons for his current visit to the States.

As far as Newt can see, there’s simply no real way for him to help Percival, at least, not in the way Ismail seems to believe that he can. There are no potions in Newt’s admittedly vast and exotic repertoire that can be used to restore what is simply no longer there. He’s no mind healer, as he’s said to Ibrahim already, and he’s not sure what the man realistically thought he could do. Desperation is a powerful motivator, Newt acknowledges sadly. And yet, even if he can’t help Graves in the way Ibrahim wants him to, he can still do other things. In the dark days, when it so easily feels as though there is nothing but adversity on all sides, he can be a friend. That is one thing Newt can do.

He rubs his thumb along the curve of the Kneazle’s head, listens to her purr, and allows himself to relax into a decision well made.

  


*

  


The run up to Christmas brings with it a curious calm for Percival Graves. A private and reserved man, for him the aftermath of confession is a catharsis he’s not quite sure he can bring himself to trust. But despite that, he clings to it. He spends a week bringing the fall out of the bust under control, and in that time the Phoenix, hidden down in Newt’s case, is slowly nursed back to a semblance of health. He knows because he spends a great deal of his free time down in the case with it. He goes down ostensibly to check on the beast for his reports, but if he ends up sleeping down there, stretched out on the Mooncalves’ hill, or ensconced in one of the dusty wicker chairs outside Newt’s shed, then neither of them make mention of it. Newt bustles around caring for his beasts, the soft clink and rustle of his potion-making a soothing accompaniment to Graves’ dozing.  

The presence of another person in Graves’ home is quite unexpectedly comforting. He doesn’t have staff of any kind, neither magefolk nor house elf, having sent all of them away to the country to attend his sister long ago, and as such is entirely accustomed to the emptiness of the place. Now though, with Newt a quiet presence in the evenings, popping into the kitchen to make use of the stove, making the floorboards creak as he moves around his bedroom, setting the fire in the grate if he’s home first, which he so often is, it’s different. The house has a warmth and a presence to it that Graves hadn’t realised he was missing so deeply. He finds himself eager to return home in the evening and find someone else there, the lights on, the fire chattering to itself in the hearth.

Once or twice they spend the evening together in the sitting room, Graves dozing quietly, Newt’s quill scratching across his ever-present notepad. It seems as if the man can never be entirely still, always thinking hard on something, coming up with new hypotheses regarding his strange menagerie, working on an article or occasionally a drawing. Though that last is something Percival knows he does only by accident, for the man is very quick to hide his art if he thinks Percival’s attention is on him. It saddens him just a little to think that he cannot yet be trusted with such things.

The day after his confession to Newt, Percival finds himself back down in the case, hesitant lest a night’s sleep has given the man time enough to think clearly and withdraw his tolerance somewhat. He need not have concerned himself. Newt takes one look at the paperwork Graves holds up in belated excuse for his presence, and then agrees to attend to it only after he’s finished mucking out. It therefore seems the simplest solution for Percival to offer to help, and although Newt seems surprised he doesn’t turn him down. After that it’s only reasonable that he continues to help out here and there, as an act of accomodation and thanks for Newt’s unpaid work to rehabilitate the Phoenix. Newt doesn’t appear to begrudge his presence, and Percival finds himself distressingly relieved to have a genuine reason to spend time in that noisy, fascinating haven. And of course since hard physical labour is not a normal part of his daily routine, on those evenings he spends working down in the beasts’ enclosures he finds himself sleeping soundly through the night once he finally turns in, a previously unanticipated benefit.

Amidst the flurry of casework and his evening sojourns to Newt’s case, Christmas comes swiftly, and the visit home that Percival has been so dreading is all too soon upon him. Preparing himself with grim anticipation, he stocks his pockets with sweets for the children, his case with gifts for all, and tucks into a hidden corner of his bags a bottle of his strongest firewhisky for his own self-medication. Christmas with his sister is a tradition going back to the year after their parents died, that much he knows from fragmentary memories and Ismail’s quiet explanation. They’ve done a lot of that, he and Ismail, over the past six months. Going over all the things he should know without having to think about it. Everything his old friend can think of that might stand out were Percival to suddenly not recall it. He’s come to understand how truly amazing it is how much a person remembers about the world around them without conscious realisation of it, of all the things they’ve seen or done or experienced down the years. Despite the burden of it, in some ways it’s also remarkable to him the new perspective he has on human existence, upon just how completely and with such complexity a person is entwined with their own experiences of the world. It truly unnerves him, if he lingers too long on the thought.

Christmas with Patty and the kids is filled with food, magic and good cheer, and it’s absolutely brutal. He has all their names rehearsed, memorised from photos and letters - she has three now, two boys and a girl: Oliver, Harvey, Iris - but to meet them face to face is his undoing. The youngest is all dark curls and her grandmother’s green eyes, and he is overwhelmed by the love he feels for this small person he cannot ever remember meeting in his life. He holds her too tightly, his cheek pressed to her ringlets, and it makes her go still and silent in something that must be alarm. His sister puts her hand on his arm, and only afterwards does he think to hope she believes all this to be merely an expression of his gratitude to still be alive. Despite having resolved to confess the truth to her, in the face of her concern he understands that he is nowhere near ready for such a thing.

He leaves as soon as is possible, aware that even so his departure is abrupt enough to raise suspicion. Patricia, ever the wise matriarch of the Graves clan, simply gives him her blessing and makes him promise her that he’ll return by Easter. He presses her into a hug, and the scent of her perfume stirs in him unexpected memories of long ago when Rolly was still alive and the three of them together were the face of the Graves family. It startles him so much he takes a step away and almost says something unfortunate.

His sister looks at him with shrewd eyes, but after a long moment’s considering silence, doesn’t ask. “Come back soon, Percy,” she tells him. “Don’t stay out there on your own.”

He leaves her with her husband and their darling children, in what qualifies for his family’s ancestral home, and flees shamefaced and undone back to the city.

Percival arrives home a day earlier than expected to an empty house. Almost empty, for the Kneazle comes sauntering out from the kitchen when she hears the front door open, and he takes a moment to lean down and pet her silvery ears. It’s surprising to him the rise of satisfaction he feels to see her come out to greet him, and her affection earns her the meat out of the sandwich he’d bought on the train back and found himself without appetite to eat. There’s no response when he calls up the stairs, and Newt’s bedroom door is open when he eventually works up the certainty to go up and check. It’s his damned house, for Merlin’s sake, and yet still he feels oddly as though he’s intruding. He needn’t have worried, for the room is empty and Newt’s case is gone. Clearly the man is out, most likely doing exactly what he’d said he would and spending the holiday season with the Goldsteins.

Feeling strangely at a loss, Percival brews himself a pot of coffee, feeds the Kneazle again even though she doesn’t need it, and then settles himself with a book in his sitting room. He briefly considers calling on Ismail, but then discards the idea. Although he doesn’t celebrate Christmas, the man has his own habits throughout the festive season and likely needs a break from Percival’s constant doom and gloom, indeed is probably dreading the angst of his return. Shaking his head, he decides to give the man his space and resists the desire to check in at the office with the thought that his early return is likely to raise more unwanted interest and suspicion than simply going back at the appointed time.

The clock on the mantelpiece already points a quarter to midnight when the sound of the front door opening wakes Percival up from his doze. The Kneazle stretches lazily in his lap, and there’s a silence from the hallway.

“Newt?” Percival calls softly.

“Oh!” Footsteps approach, and the sitting room door is shouldered open. Newt peers awkwardly round the edge, clearly holding something still hidden behind the door. “Mr Graves! I- did I get the day wrong?”

There’s a flush to Newt’s cheeks and a slight glassiness to his eyes and Percival tilts his head back in an attempt to catch sight of whatever the man is holding. “No, no, I decided to come back today. Things had wrapped up out there, didn’t want to hang around.”

“Well then,” Newt says, and smiles slightly goofily at him. “Good you’re back. You should have owled, I would have come back sooner.”

Surprised at the thought, and able to smell the alcohol on the other man even from this distance, Percival asks, “Good evening?”

“Super, yes,” Newt enthuses. “But uhm, actually, I bought this back with me, which is great because you can have some too! I’m going to uh, put it in the kitchen. Are you hungry? I’m honestly rather hungry myself, and a midnight snack is always fun, isn’t it?”

 _Ah_ , Percival thinks. _A chatty drunk._ “What is it you’ve got there?” he asks, lifting the Kneazle off his lap and pushing himself to his feet. His muscles protest the movement and he stifles a wince as something in his flank threatens to cramp.

“Cake!” Newt calls back cheerfully, already on his way to the kitchen.

Percival breathes deeply for a second, pushing through the pain. Misty winds around his legs, looking up at him, and he holds himself still as the twist of agony gradually starts to fade. “Fucking hell,” he mutters down at her. She mews at him in response, then cocks her head at a clatter from the direction of the kitchen. She’s gone out of the room in a flash, and Percival limps after her.   

Newt’s case is standing on the table, and next to it is a large white cake box and a pair of plates, the source of the clattering from before. Newt himself is currently digging through the drawers, in search of a knife Percival assumes, and he takes advantage of the man’s distraction to come up and lean surreptitiously on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. He lifts the lid off the cake box, saying, “Third drawer, no left, _left_ , that one, yes.”

Newt turns back, large knife in hand, as Percival looks down into the box. Now _that’s_ a cake. Even already half-eaten, the thing glitters with frosting and tiny decorative crystals, colourful patterning drawn onto it in some esoteric baking style that makes the surface gleam with the metallic blue and purple of Occamy scales. “Well…” Percival says, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Who made this?”

Newt stares at him, blinks, and then says very definitely, “Uh... _Queenie._ Yes. She bakes. All the time. This is _hers_.”

“Right, well, that’s- I had no idea she was so skilled,” Percival says, wondering what he’s said now to set Newt’s anxiety off. “Looks delicious,” he says as reassuringly as possible.

“Right! Yes! It _is!_ I’ll cut some,” Newt says, and sets to. He slices them each a generous portion, as Percival lifts the Kneazle down from where she’s leapt up on the table. “You can’t have any of this,” Newt says to her. “It’s terrible for us, and awful for you. We couldn’t possibly allow it! Here you are, Percival.”

Percival accepts the plate, a little amused to find that a tipsy Newt is quite happy to lose his usual formality. “Back to the sitting room?” he asks, as Newt unclasps the lid of his case and reaches down into the depths, drawing up a bottle tied by its neck to a string and clearly affixed for easy recovery to the ladder.

Newt looks up at him, waves the sherry bottle cheerfully, and says, “Glasses?”

“I do indeed have glasses,” Percival confirms, and so agreed they retire back to the sitting room, settling themselves before the fire with cake and sherry.  Newt looks at him sideways once the sherry is poured and the cake consumed, and Percival wonders if he’s going to ask about Christmas. He braces himself to turn aside the question, not wanting to discuss his failure right now, and draws an excruciating blank on things to talk about instead.

“Do you know Wands, Sticks and Cauldrons?” Newt asks suddenly.

Percival blinks at him in surprise. He certainly does, though it’s been a few years. “I do..?”

“Excellent!” Newt declares, drawing a pack of cards out of his jacket pocket. “I’ve learnt some new tricks I’m certain you don’t know. Let’s play!”

They do, setting the cards out on small side table between their chairs, passing the sherry between them as the time passes. It’s a pleasant way to spend the night, and for the first time in days Percival finds himself relaxing. Something wound unpleasantly tight in his chest unknots some, loosened by alcohol and the amusingly talkative presence of Newt, tongue silvered by the application of sherry. Tipsiness makes him chatter animatedly about the cards, tipping his hand more than once in his excitement to draw Percival’s attention to some ploy that he’d only have been served by had he managed to keep it a secret. Had he been a scoundrel, Percival could have taken the man for his life savings on more than one occasion.

It’s close on three in the morning by the time they put themselves to bed, both of them exhausted and half asleep from drink. They bid their goodnights on the landing, and afterwards Percival lies in bed, feeling his head swim only a little disconcertingly, and thinks that for all his embarrassment at having been discovered home early he’ll take it for the relief of Newt’s company once more. He falls asleep pleasantly full of sherry and cake, and for once doesn’t wake again until morning.

New Year’s Eve is a tradition all of its own. In true cynical old auror style, Graves is accustomed to celebrating the occasion alone with Ismail, the two of them packing themselves into his sitting room with a few bottles of something potent and setting the world to rights on into the new year. This time, he invites Newt to join them.

At first Newt is cautious, but once Percival assures him the evening is entirely informal he concedes easily enough and is downstairs and ready before Ismail even arrives. It’s a display of ease with them both that Percival finds pleasing, and which lifts his mood significantly.

Ibrahim turns up with a bottle in hand, adding even more alcohol to the collection in Percival’s drinks cabinet that Newt is already kneeling down to admire. “You must think us both quite the lushes,” Percival murmurs, leaning down next to him to pull out a particularly favoured vintage for the table.

“No, not at all,” Newt protests, well aware of the traditional auror capacity for drink, at least in the ones he’s encountered.

“Absolutely correct, my friend,” Ibrahim confirms. “Percival’s the lush, I don’t partake. Now stand back, I’m going to cook.”

“Mercy Lewis, I suggest you take up defensive position in the corner,” Percival advises Newt. “Throw up a shield if you feel it necessary; don’t stand on formality, he’s entirely used to it.”

Between them, somehow without serious incident, a meal is prepared and enjoyed. The topic of Christmas is ignored in its entirety, the two aurors instead reverting to gentle mockery of one another, interspersed with a surprisingly open acerbity regarding the local political scene. Newt doesn’t know all the names that come up, but if he ever does meet any of these people he’s going to be looking at them from quite a different perspective. It turns out that Ismail had been left in charge over the Christmas period, and his tales of the festive foolishness of his underlings, although superficially anonymous, are pointed enough that Newt can work out everyone’s identity without having been told exactly who the subjects are. He finds himself snorting with laughter, and completely unable to conceal it, which makes the two aurors’ eyes gleam with wicked amusement.

They retire afterwards to the sitting room, a third armchair is transfigured from one of the dining room chairs, and a heated debate over why this hasn’t already been done for Newt is only ended by a thoroughly embarrassed Newt pulling out a pack of cards. It turns out that Ismail and Graves will happily play along with Newt, until it comes time to end the game, after which point they will figuratively go for one another’s throats in a merciless display of competitive aggression. By the time they’re done with one another Newt’s more than glad that Ismail declined to play for money, even small change.

Midnight finds them feet up before the fire, and they raise two glasses and a cup of tea to the twelfth chime.

“To a new year, and another chance,” Newt says, and drinks. Ismail looks sideways at him consideringly, and Percival dips his head, mouth tight, but not in anger, Newt thinks. They toast the new year in, and then spend a comfortable hour discussing their upcoming plans. For the aurors it’s mostly work, and for Newt it’s book signings and author events, which is of course simply another type of work, far less glamorous and enjoyable than the other two seem inclined to think. Not long after, Ismail makes his excuses, waving off Percival’s offer of a bed for the night, and quietly sees himself out.

“Good night, Ibrahim,” Newt calls after him, as Percival sees him to the door.

The night outside is bitingly cold, and Percival winces out into the soft white of recently fallen snow. “You’re sure you won’t stay?” he asks, leaning on the door.

Ismail shakes his head, and gives him a crooked smile. “Some of us have to work tomorrow if you’ll recall, old chap. We can’t all be men of leisure.”

Percival snorts indelicately and nods out at the snow. “Sure, sure. Enjoy your cold apartment. I’ll see you in a day or two, owl me if something comes-”

“No, absolutely not. But good of you to suggest it. Now, why don’t you go back in and keep that young man company, for all our sakes?”

Percival regards his old friend, feeling the weight of expectation in the look he receives in return, and staunchly ignores the implications of it. “Get off my doorstep, Ismail, you’re letting the heat out.”

Ismail laughs, and claps him on the shoulder. “Happy new year, old man.”

“Happy new year,” Percival replies, and watches as his friend trots down the steps to the sidewalk, before taking himself off in the direction of the nearest apparition point. The snow glitters in the light of the streetlamps, and across the way the windows are still aglow with festive candles and modern electrical lights. He closes the door, unsure of what it is he’s feeling, and stands for a moment alone in the hallway.

Down the corridor the door to the sitting room is ajar, spilling flickering firelight out onto the hall carpet, and he can hear the crack and spit of logs in the hearth. The gramophone Patty bought him a few years ago is playing jazz in a smooth tumble of notes, and the clink of a glass indicates that Newt is pouring himself another drink. It’s odd, he’d not taken the man to be a drinker, but he seems entirely happy to match Percival glass for glass. Of course neither of them are quite as sozzled as they were the night he came back from the country, but still. Still it’s good, it’s...pleasant.

Percival doesn’t understand Newt, and he doesn’t understand his own reaction to him either. The man is both anxious and strangely forward, informed and yet shockingly naive. He reacts with determination where all others would be dismayed, and has a swift and elusive humour that Percival is only just beginning to uncover. He’s devastatingly charming at times, albeit in an entirely unconscious manner, and Percival is distressed suddenly to realise just how under the man’s spell he’s allowed himself to fall. Ridiculous really, he’s far too old for this kind of foolishness.

He stands in the chill of the hallway and breathes in the cool air, giving himself a moment to settle the sudden flush of anxiety he feels. Percival is in no way blind to his reaction to Newt. He’d been fully cognizant of his relief when Newt had returned home those few days ago, that sense of comfort it brings him to have the man in his house, as company and distraction both. How it pleases him to come home and find the kitchen in use, the fire lit, the sense of another person in the house. And it’s not just company, he’s honest enough with himself to know that. God almighty, he has a _crush_ , the beginnings of an infatuation. Percival Graves cannot afford that, he simply can’t risk it. Nor can he ask it of the man. Newt is one of only two people fully aware of the extent of his current existential and mental crises, and to ask anything more of him than his patience would make of Percival a real bastard.

 _Which you are,_ a small part of him says evenly. _Don’t even pretend you’re not._

He closes his eyes briefly, then, aware that the seconds have stretched into minutes and he’s still standing out here alone in the dark and cold hallway, he makes his way back into the sitting room. Newt glances up as he enters, cheeks bright with warmth from the fire and the whisky they’ve also been drinking, and does a small double-take.

“Feeling the whisky?” he asks in mingled cheek and concern.

Glad of the excuse for any indication that he looks out of sorts, Percival nods. “Just a little. I suppose I’ve overdone it a bit the last few days. Though Mercy, don’t tell Ibrahim I said that.”

“Your secret is safe with me, sir,” Newt grins and raises his glass to him. “Actually, I was thinking I might retire myself. It’s been quite a week of celebrations and I have to be honest I’m not really accustomed to it.”

Percival leans on the back of his armchair and looks across at Newt. The Kneazle, expulsed from Percival’s lap as he saw to his guest, has curled up on him instead and is defying the inevitability of being ousted by curling as tightly into a ball as she can. “Of course,” he replies, “I understand. Honestly, I think it’s bed time for me too.”

Newt drains his glass and sets it down, then slips a palm under the Kneazle to ease her off his lap. “Thank you for inviting me tonight, I really did have a good time.”

Percival shakes his head and holds up a hand. “You are entirely welcome, it was good to have you here.”

And it had been. He’s not lying, or being polite. It had been good to have Newt there alongside his oldest friend, the two of them at ease with one another and relaxed around him. It’s a feeling Percival hadn’t realised he’d been missing. The company of friends, good friends, the kind of simple relaxation he’s not enjoyed since he was still at Ilvermorny.

Newt begins picking up glasses, and Percival waves him away. “Leave it, please. I’ll sort it out tomorrow.”

“If you’re sure?”

“Entirely.”

Percival moves to tidy up and secure the fire, as Newt puts the stopper back in the whisky decanter. He turns around to find the man watching him, and isn’t sure of the expression on his face. He’s clearly merry, but again not as far gone as he had been by the end of their previous evening of drinking. He seems about to say something, and then shakes his head and smiles wryly. “Well, good night, Percival.”

There’s a lot Percival would have given to know what he’d been intending to say, but instead he blinks and nods in return. “Good night, Newt.”

He watches as the other man makes his only slightly unsteady way out of the room, waves the gramophone to silence, and listens to his tread on the stairs. Misty sits neatly on the carpet in the centre of the room and watches him. Her green eyes blink slowly, and Percival can’t help but think he’s let another chance for something slip past. But what, he doesn’t even know.

The idea that he’s becoming reliant on Newt returns to him, sending an unpleasant clutch of chill through the pit of his stomach, and very suddenly he feels rather sick. It’s the alcohol of course, that and the fact he’s missed his appointed dosing hour for at least half of his potions. All at once he feels terribly old and badly used. Newt is a charming and bright young man, about to step into the prime of his life, fully on the upswing, and here’s Percival, lost his rhythm, missing his reputation and decidedly worse for wear. The very idea of his somehow becoming anything, anything at all to the man is laughable. God, the very fact he’s still considering it is indication enough of how mentally weak he’s allowed himself to become.

Running a tired palm down over his face, Percival breathes out a long breath and waits for his stomach to settle before taking himself slowly up the stairs and to bed.

He wakes not two hours later, bathed in sweat, and urgently nauseous, and has to scramble out of bed to avoid puking across the bedclothes. He does make it as far as the ensuite, but only just. After he’s cleaned out his mouth and wiped away the sweat with a towel he regards his sleeping arrangements. He’d allowed himself to become far too wrapped up in the thick blankets, and their embrace combined with the small fire set in the grate had caused him to feel decidedly unwell. He suspects, from previous experience, that one or two of the potions he’d taken before bed had reacted poorly with the alcohol he’d already imbibed. With a sigh he sets about stripping the thick, sweat-soaked blankets from the bed, waving a replacement set from the cupboard in the corner. The heaviest top throw he folds neatly in the air, intending to set it within reach in case he needs it later, but certain the thickness of it will be too much for the rest of the night.

A glimmer of reflected light and a soft thud catches his attention and he stops, the heavy throw hanging part-folded in the air. In the dim light of the single lamp he’s switched on, a small pile of metal glints on the carpet. For a long moment he simply stands and stares down at it. Then he lets the throw fall to the bed, and leans down with a shaking hand to scoop it up. The long silver chain hangs across his palm like a dead snake, and he turns the trinket attached to it until it lies face up.

Grindelwald’s necklace gleams up at him, its curves and angles as familiar and hated as its previous owner’s face.

He’d thought it gone. He’d thought it lost somehow, stolen from him as he’d taken it from the evidence locker. He’d even, in desperation, taken to blaming the damned Niffler for its sudden disappearance. And yet here it is, after all these weeks, not stolen but hidden, tucked somehow into the folds of his bedsheets - sheets he’d sworn he’d fully turned down in previous searches for it.

Here it is again, proof that no matter what he does, no matter how he tries, he cannot ever forget what he allowed to happen. He’d taken it as a reminder of his failure, as a keepsake to bind him to the responsibilities he must never fail again. And when he’d lost it, he’d thought by some strange magic that he’d been freed. But of course not. Of course not.

He closes his fingers around its sharp corners and tightens his fist until the pain closes his throat, until the sharp vertices of the symbol prick skin, and draw blood. Later, he sets it back around his neck, and gets into bed, and his sleep is restless and fitful until sunrise turns the room to grey and the first day of the new year dawns.

  


*

 

 

The wind is bitingly cold on the wooden walkway. In the distance the serried peaks of the surrounding mountain range march across the horizon, their sides gleaming white with snow in the bright, morning sunlight. The sky is a piercing blue, and Newt ducks back into the shelter of the Phoenix’s roosting perch, his breath stolen away by the frigidity of the air. The beast stretches up to its full height, extends its wings and flaps them experimentally. He’s not yet capable of flying, but every day brings him closer to the possibility.

Movement out at the other end of the walkway makes Newt look up. The blue of the sky shimmers and then folds in on itself, as Percival lifts the outer flap of the Phoenix’s habitat and ducks inside. He lifts a hand to Newt who waves back in acknowledgement and holds up two fingers. _Be there in two minutes._ He sees Percival nod, and then duck back outside once more.

Newt takes a few moments to settle the Phoenix back down; he still doesn’t know the beast’s name, and Feathers will hardly suffice for long. He’d been thinking Felix, but with a creature as intelligent as the Phoenix it’s really up to the beast to tell him when it’s good and ready. Picking up his bag of supplies, Newt slings it across his shoulder, and pulling his coat tight around his throat, heads back out onto the walkway towards the exit.

Beneath the platform the world drops away into open space, the walkway seeming to extend out into the open sky. Over the last three weeks, Percival has helped Newt enchant the habitat to reflect the natural environment of the Phoenix, just as Newt likes to have all his habitats tailored as closely as possible to match their inhabitants’ preferences. In truth, the vast majority of the work on this one had been done by Percival. Newt is repeatedly taken aback by just how much effort the man has put into making this one fit for purpose. Unsurprisingly, his skills outstrip anything Newt is capable of. The winds that blow up here have varying temperatures depending on the time of day, a schedule by which it snows, and the visual charms that show off the mountains in the distance and the sheer drop of hundreds of miles beneath his feet are so perfect that often, if he moves too quickly across the walkway, Newt finds himself gripped by vertigo.

After the icy temperatures of the Phoenix’s habitat, the inside of Newt’s case feels positively tropical. As he walks he takes off his coat and unwinds his scarf, already feeling himself start to sweat. Percival is already back by the shed, his mucking out tools leaning in one corner. Newt can hear the splash of water from the shower rigged up to one side of the building, and he sees Percival with his head ducked under the stream, washing his hair out. Water runs down his bare shoulders, and Newt has a moment to think both how that rash from weeks ago has completely disappeared and also once again how well muscled the man is starting to look these days. He wasn’t exactly a slouch when they met, but a few weeks helping out in Newt’s case has certainly added a little definition to him.

 _Hm, quite enough of that,_ Newt thinks to himself, and deliberately looks away.

Laid out on an upturned feed barrel, itself set between two old wicker chairs, there’s a veritable feast of sandwiches and cheese, with a bottle of wine stood alongside. Newt picks up the bottle and examines the vintage appreciatively, long since having grown accustomed to the luxury of the Graves wine cellar. Percival soon joins him, towelling his hair dry and now fully dressed in his mucking out clothes. The pair of them sit side by side, making a meal of the sandwiches and watching the Billywigs buzz around their tree.

“I’m going to get fat on fine wine if you keep on providing these,” Newt says indicating the bottle with a nod.

Percival smirks as he reaches for a sandwich. “Might it slow you down enough for the rest of us to keep up?”

Newt makes a show of considering the question, then shakes his head. “Seems unlikely.”

“Hmm,” Percival replies. “Well no-one else is drinking them.”

Newt is fully aware that left to his own devices Percival will subsist entirely on a liquid diet of firewhisky and the strongest coffee, but he doesn’t mention this. He notices the other man wince almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth, and is momentarily thrown by the expression. It takes him a second to connect the two, but understanding follows when Percival shakes his head as though to clear it and asks, “So how’s the bird today?”

It’s a distraction tactic, and Newt knows it. Percival can be understandably touchy on the subject of his limited social group due to the disastrous consequences it so recently exposed him to. Still, Newt replies, “He’s doing very well, considering.”

“Impressive really,” Graves adds. “It’s not been that long and he’s starting to look a lot like the pictures you see in books.” He looks up at the Billywigs and then dips his chin, swirling his wine thoughtfully. “And he didn’t burn himself up in the end,” he observes quietly.

Newt looks at him evenly. “Not this time. He’ll always have those scars though, I think. That silvering under his body.”

Percival nods slowly and purses his lips. “I wonder if they’ll carry on through his future incarnations.”

They’re both silent for some time, Newt knowing that an answer is not required and wondering if Percival was ever talking about the Phoenix in the first place. The last few weeks, from New Year’s onwards really, have been an exceptionally good time for the both of them. They’ve settled down into a routine of work and companionship that’s given each of them the time and space needed to relax into their roles as host and guest, and, more simply, as friends. Newt has had chance to work with the Phoenix, taking care of him and nursing him back to health, and Percival has slotted into this routine with all the ease of a friend of decades rather than scant weeks. The benefits to his mental health have been readily apparent too, although neither of them have mentioned it to the other. Still, time is moving on, and this strange and magical interlude cannot possibly last.

“You know,” Newt says softly, and ever so gently, “I can’t make you a potion to give you back your memories.”

The silence between them is filled with the buzzing of the Billywigs and the cries of the Graphorn calves cavorting together in their habitat. The air is filled with the flicker of tiny wings as a flock of Gillydots sweep past, their tiny silvery bodies gleaming in the reflected light of the enclosures, their fluting song, so like a human voice, hovering just on the edge of comprehension. They fade into the distance between the walls of the habitats, and Newt watches Percival’s face, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. He doesn’t want the man to be angry, or to panic, and he can’t stand the look of complete unsurprise on his face, as though he’d suspected this outcome all along.

“I’m sorry,” Newt whispers.

Percival nods, and finally turns briefly to look at him. His eyes are dark with some emotion Newt can’t untangle, but the sight of it makes him go cold. There’s something awful there, and inevitable, and he can’t think what to do with it.

“It’s fine, Newt.”

Percival pauses for a beat, and Newt wants to say _it’s not, it’s really not fine at all_ , but the words don’t come, and all of a sudden he’s transported back five and a half weeks to an office in the MACUSA headquarters where a man he’d never met yet somehow still knew turned dark and terribly wounded eyes on him, and then, as now, he just didn’t know what to say.

“Come on, I’ve finished the mucking out but the Mooncalves still need feeding, and I think if Nasiib doesn’t get fed soon he’ll make short work of the lot of them, which will make a mockery of everything you’ve tried to do for the cause of Nundu good press.”

Percival pushes himself to his feet, brushes the crumbs off his lap and starts to wrap up the remaining sandwiches. Newt watches him in silence, not knowing what to say but deeply disliking this new unconcern with which the other man is acting. It’s not right, and it’s just not fair, and Newt’s not a child to think that every story has a happy ending, but goddammit this is unacceptable. “Percival…” he says, unsure of what he wants to say.

Percival stops, and looks down at him, still seated with the last of his sandwich in one hand. For a second he hesitates, then he shakes his head. “Honestly, Newt. I always knew there was no cure for this except to keep on living.”

Newt stares at him, and when Percival offers him a tired, but determined smile, the expression makes his heart ache.

“Come on, my friend,” Percival says. “Enough of this now. There’s beasts that need tending.”

When he offers his hand to help Newt up, Newt accepts, and together they continue on with the evening’s work.

  


*

 

 

Seraphina’s office smells of incense.

Graves recognises the blend and knows that it’s used in sweeping rituals, the sort of magic that looks for charms of influence and scrubs them away. It doesn’t surprise him in the least that she’s been casting that sort of thing more recently these days. Each of their offices are already warded as part of the wider building’s defensive magics, but as has been so recently and viciously pointed out to them all, what takes place outside of the building can be just as devastatingly insidious as anything cast within.

MACUSA’s President is seated behind her great mahogany desk, her painted nails tapping a quick rhythm on the edge of a sealed envelope, as she regards him, eyes unreadable. Percival knows from the tapping that something is amiss, and that she is allowing herself to communicate this concern to him only because the two of them have known each other for so long, and, because her position is so very dependent on his these days. What it could be is anyone’s guess.

“You’re aware that the Campbell’s daughter was among those detained after the docklands raid,” she states.

Of course Percival is aware. Even without having processed each of their paperwork himself he couldn’t fail to have noticed the name Lucille Campbell cross his desk. The fifth daughter of one of the most prominent of the New York wizarding families, her speciality has so far been social entanglements, gossip, and angering her mother, a powerful witch of one of the most conservative factions of New York wizarding society.

He returns the President’s stare, and wonders what the family have been saying about this whole matter. Being well aware of the political suicide it would be to release her name, a great deal of effort has already gone into maintaining a smokescreen around the precise details of this case; nonetheless the vultures from the Ghost have already been circling with interest.

“We’re letting her go.”

Despite his years of experience in the political arena, the statement still takes him completely by surprise. For a second he’s simply too stunned to respond. Seraphina keeps her even stare locked onto him, waiting for him to process her words.

“We are _not_ fucking letting her go!” he explodes. “You cannot be serious, ‘Phina.”

She doesn’t bother reprimanding him for his outburst, and he can see in her eyes how entirely serious she is. “Are you-? What in Merlin’s name are you playing at? We have a list of charges against her the length of my arm! She’s entirely complicit in the whole operation! We are not letting her simply walk out of here as though she owns the damned place!”

She lets him get to the end of his outraged spiel, staring at him across the width of her desk, turning the blank envelope between her sharp fingernails. “We can and we are.”

He stops, bites his tongue and tries to work out what’s happening. There has to be some reason for this, some explanation that goes beyond the very obvious conclusion of corruption that his cynical soul is only too happy to embrace. “What’s going on here?” he asks slowly. “Tell me why we’re doing this.”

He doesn’t like the look of scrutiny she gives him, cool and assessing. The tapping of her fingernails is starting to grate on his nerves. She draws in a deep breath, then leans forward fractionally over her desk. “You know where we stand with them. The girl wasn’t directly involved-”

“She was present at the warehouse when we raided the damned place!”

“-she was _incidentally_ present due to bad timing, and has had no direct dealings with the distribution or creation of any restricted substances whatsoever.”

He leans back in his chair, nodding in disbelief. “You’re going to pin this on the boyfriend.”

“No-one is pinning anything on anyone. Marcus Sybil is a known entity with an established history that’s seen him on the wrong side of the law more than once. We _cannot_ move hastily around the Campbells, Percival. Come on, you know this! What the hell have you been thinking the past week?”

“That we would do our jobs perhaps?” he says, spreading his hands out, palms up, eyebrows raised.

“Percival.”

“That we’re better than this. That we have more goddamned control over our own people in our own damned city!”

She lets his words ring around the room and then fade away. He stares at her in open defiance, disgusted by the politics and the game playing. A part of him had known this was coming from the moment the Niffler identified the Lowestoft Buildings, but still he’d hoped that this time, especially considering the state of heightened tensions, they might actually have the heft to put their foot down.

“I’m starting to think you don’t understand what’s at stake any more, Percival.”

“Excuse me?” he says, honestly taken aback.

Seraphina shakes her head slightly, eyes steely cold. She’s angry with him, but there’s something else there too, a wariness. “You think with Grindelwald locked up that’s the end of it? Don’t be a damned fool. Grindelwald was just the start. The figurehead of something nasty that’s been coming for years. Decades. Times have been changing, Percy, the world is opening up like it never has before and the magical community isn’t ready for it. Your family may have ridden the wave and made a fortune out of it, but that’s not all that’s going on here. The No-Majs are getting cleverer, more dangerous. You saw the weaponry they pulled out in the war, you think all those are going away? You think they’ll just pack those guns back in their crates and sit quiet for the rest of the century? The Boggart’s out of the box now, Percival, and there’s no-one out there capable of putting it back in. Now more than ever we _need_ stability. We _need_ to be able to rely on the old families, the old assurances. We may not agree with every one of them but by Morgana we need their strength behind us, not coming at us from all sides.”

It’s not that Percival isn’t fully aware of these things, it’s just that it all exists in a vacuum for him these days. His purpose as an auror is to protect the magical community, from itself if need be. It’s his life’s work, his focus and his goal, keeping him on the straight and narrow - something to cling to and build an existence and an identity around. He’s aware that in the days _before,_ in that clearer, simpler time before Grindelwald had him, he’d been far more involved and on a wider scale with the various political machinations of the upper echelons of magical society. Now, through the recommendations of his healers he’s focussed down and taken some time to get back into the swing of things. He’s fully aware of just how much Seraphina has been shielding him from, and how much work this must have been for her, to effectively be stood alone now when she needs him the most.

He stares at her, not knowing what he can say. His anger still bubbles beneath the surface, but now it’s tempered by uncertainty. He can feel a trap opening up beneath his feet, the inevitability of it like the looming presence of a wave just about to crest.

“Percival, what’s going on with you?” she asks him quietly.

“Nothing,” he says, mouth dry. “Nothing at all.”

For a long moment they simply look at one another. Then, in one swift movement she sets down the envelope with which she’s been toying, and pushes it across the desk to him.

“You have your final psych evaluation due,” she says evenly.

Percival draws in a deep breath, looks down as he takes a firm grip on his reactions, then reaches out to pick up the letter. Seraphina holds it in place with her fingertips. “If there is anything you need to tell me before you go ahead with this, anything at all, then now is the time.”

He flicks his gaze up to meet hers. Her eyes are steady, searching. They have both known that this was coming, but of course there’s no reason to think that he’ll fare badly.

“I’m touched, Seraphina. Really, I am.”

He is not, and he can see the frustration with him in her face as she releases the letter and leans back.

“If that’s everything,” he says. “I’ll see about processing the girl’s paperwork.”

She nods acceptance of the temporary truce. Graves slips the letter into one of the inner pockets of his jacket, not bothering to look at it right now, and gets to his feet. He’s almost to the door when she speaks.

“Make sure you pass it, Percival. Please.”

He doesn’t turn around, but he nods, once, before he opens the door and takes his leave.

  


*

 

 

To all those around him, Newt’s social life is unexpectedly hectic. The fifteenth of January sees him due to attend another glittering event in what turns out to be only the latest in a string of such engagements. This one has somehow been upgraded from a small and intimate gathering to a full blown event catering to around a hundred and fifty guests. Newt, incensed that he’d been tricked into accepting an invite to a something wholly other than what he’d thought it was, is only talked out of his panicked and angry intention of simply not going, by Queenie who suggests an entirely different approach to the matter.

Which is how Queenie, Tina, Percival and Ibrahim all end up dressed to the nines in the Rose Room of the Hotel Astor, listening to Newt give a talk on magical beasts. Afterwards they act as something somewhere between his personal entourage and his bodyguards, enough to run interference when the local journos get too up close and personal via Queenie’s charm and Percival’s black stare. Finally, once the photographers have been invited to leave, the formal dinner has been sat through, and the guests have been set free to mingle and dance, they take themselves off to the very top floor of the hotel where a small, temporary ballroom has been set up on the roof. Queenie insists Newt take a spin around the dance floor with her, partially out of excitement, but mostly to help him escape the continued clutches of his slightly over-eager fans. Ibrahim, only too happy to be given a chance to dance while surrounded by ladies in all their finery, takes Tina’s hand and declares they ought not to be outdone.

It’s all rather too much for Percival, who, after a career spent politely massaging the egos of diplomats in situations just like this, can simply no longer abide formal shindigs. He takes himself off to the side, slinking quietly between the gathered throngs, both pleased and a little surprised to not be the centre of attention for once. He watches as Queenie and Newt spin their way around the floor, Queenie sparkling and bright, drawing every eye in the room, and Newt, flushed and embarrassed, drawn inevitably along by her fabulous good cheer. The room is filled with music and light, crystal globes of glittering rainbow hues floating high up near the ceiling, spilling tiny points of light down onto the guests, making the women’s finery sparkle. Eventually, tiring of the noise and the stifling heat of indoors, Percival slips off to find himself a quiet corner in which to smoke.

The Astor, famed for its rooftop garden, does not disappoint. The high-walled area is divided into two sections on this side, one of which is devoted to the roofed-over dance floor. The other is partly given over to an open area with small wrought-iron tables, and partly to a neat little section of decorative hedges, tall enough to provide screened-off clearings for discreet chatter. It’s to this part of the garden he heads, following the paths lit by tiny glowing lanterns of green and blue and yellow, their light reflecting from the glittering bodies of fantastical beasts charmed up in miniature form to decorate the hedges and entertain the guests. It’s a continuation of the theme inside where the walls have been enchanted to display moving depictions of the beasts in Newt’s book, some of which will even react to their audience if they sense attention on them.

The garden, at least eight stories up to Percival’s eye, is freezing cold. The sky above is clear and scattered with stars, and the moon hangs bright and full over the city. The temperature has most guests keeping to the ballroom, or at least clustering around its doors, and as such he is free to explore alone. Off to one side he discovers a tall, three-tiered water fountain, and spends a minute looking down into its depths, surprised to find that he recognises the colourful fish swimming in the lowest basin as a form of magical goldfish from China. Newt has a few of them in his water habitat. Even now he can hear the man’s voice detailing for him the specifics of their characteristics. Entirely harmless and kept primarily for their vivid colouring, only the most expensive of them carry the ability to increase their owner’s luck, and certainly it’s unlikely that these do. Still, their violet and green forms flicker very prettily in the candlelight, and he spends a few moments just watching them idley before finding a seat on the edge of the fountain. From this position he can see through down one of the paths directly into the open doors of the small ballroom. The night air is still frigid and he casts a simple heating charm on his shirt to warm himself, his coat out of reach in the hotel’s cloakroom. It’s here that Ibrahim finds him, some fifteen minutes later, still smoking, his attention fixed on the light and good cheer of the dance floor.

“Merlin’s balls, is it cold enough out here for you?”

Percival grunts an acknowledgement but doesn’t reply, and Ibrahim settles himself next to him on the edge of the fountain, looking down into the water at the fish. “Hm,” he says. “You should take one of these back for the Kneazle.”

Percival reaches into his pocket and draws out his cigarette case, offering it to his friend. Ibrahim waves him away, shaking his head. “You know I don’t, disgusting habit cigarettes.”

He draws out his pipe instead and begins to pack it with tobacco. “Besides, I thought you didn’t smoke anymore,” he observes lightly.

“I don’t, clearly,” Percival replies, taking one last drag on his cigarette and vanishing the butt.

Ibrahim snorts indelicately, and lights his pipe with a touch of his fingertip to the bowl. They sit back together, the fountain tinkling behind them, watching the dancers spin in the golden light of inside. Very close to the centre of the room, Newt can be seen, Queenie still on his arm, talking to some of the other guests. He looks very dapper tonight in a tux made up for him by the sisters, although Percival had provided him with white tie and gloves after realising the man would have simply gone without them. Honestly, Newt can be completely incapable of looking out for himself in some situations. On the other hand, Percival has to admit he brushes up damned fine.

Beside him, Ibrahim blows out smoke in a long breath that’s more sigh than anything. “For the love of all that’s holy, my friend, please - just do it,” he says softly.

Percival blinks, train of thought broken, and frowns sideways at him. “Do what?”

Ibrahim shakes his head slightly, eyes on the glow of the ballroom. “Dance with him. Tell him he’s beautiful. Take him to bed.”

Percival closes his eyes, folding his arms and then wiping a palm across his mouth. He’s not shocked by Ibrahim’s words; he’s known his friend far too long for that. Ibrahim simply knows him too well, as he’s proven time and time again. He opens his eyes, shakes his head once, palm still pressed to his lips, and watches Newt animatedly speaking to an older woman in a flowing green dress. He’ll be gathering sponsors and patrons tonight, even when he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. There are few people already inclined towards conservation that will be able to resist his fervent and honest enthusiasm for the topic.

“He’s leaving in five days, Ibe.”

“Time enough.”

Percival laughs wryly, and shakes his head. “For what?”

Ibrahim raises his eyebrows and sniffs. “Well…”

“For Merlin’s sake,” Percival says quietly, though there’s no heat in the words. “I just-...now is not the time. There’s just, there’s too much going on. The raid, the whole thing with the Campbells, it’s a mess.”

“It’s always a mess,” Ibrahim says, tapping the stem of his pipe across one finger to settle the tobacco.

“No, it’s more than that. It’s-, Seraphina is circling me like a goddamned vulture. I’ve got a psych eval to get through and they’re out for my blood. There’s no damned cure, Ibrahim. There isn’t one.” Percival trails off, swallows hard, and clears his throat, angry at the crack in his voice.

Ibrahim is silent, his dark eyes reflecting the light from the surrounding candles, solid and unmoved by his friend’s outburst. “We’ll be all right, old man,” he says softly.

They sit for a while then, listening to the music drifting out from inside, watching the people chatter and dance, though one of them has eyes only for one particular man. Percival watches as Newt dances politely with other guests, and knows him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders as he forces himself to look up and occasionally meet their eyes. Everyone seems charmed by him, and he experiences a brief, ridiculous surge of possessiveness that makes him shake his head at himself. He’s getting foolish in his old age, clearly.

Three dances later, and Newt manages to slip behind Queenie who steps valiantly forward into the gap he leaves behind, neatly covering his retreat. They see him look around the ballroom, then turn to squint out of the open doors.

“Ah,” says Ibrahim, raising a hand to catch his attention. “Here he comes.”

“Stay out here with me,” Percival whispers suddenly, as Newt starts to make his way out of the ballroom and over to them.

“Mhm,” Ibrahim replies. “Newt! Over here! That’s it.”

Newt arrives, pulling his jacket tight around himself in reaction to the freezing temperatures. He glances around at the animals hidden amongst the leaves and smiles fondly. His expression says quite clearly that he appreciates the attempt even if the accuracy of the creatures is somewhat questionable. “I wondered where you two had gotten to,” he says.

“I see you’ve left the girls to fend for themselves,” Ibrahim says, and Newt scoffs.

“They are _more_ than capable of looking out for themselves. In fact I feel quite sorry for the rest of the room. Hello, Percival.”

Percival nods slowly at him, still suffering in the grasp of his darker emotions. Newt looks flushed from dancing and alcohol alike, his movements animated as he steps over to peer into the fountain. “Oh!” he says. “Lucky charm oranda. They breed these in Japan, though they’re from China originally.”

“I was just saying to Ibrahim you have some of these,” Percival starts awkwardly, and Ibrahim gives him a look, which he ignores. “Though I’m pretty sure these don’t need permits.”

“Actually, in some countries they do. China for example, you have to be very careful to have your papers in order for some of the breeds, particularly the proven magical ones. I mean, demonstrably magical at any rate. You’re actually not allowed to take them out of the country at all. All the ones we have over here aren’t true oranda, they’re simply very, very dilute breeding stock, barely even magical at all. Just exceptionally pretty.”

“Hm,” Percival says, looking down at the fish. “Yours are magical.”

“Yes,” Newt replies absently. “They were a gift from a friend in China.”

“A friend in China,” Ibrahim repeats, eyebrows raised. “Now that’s a story you’ll have to tell us one day, Newt. But I must insist you wait until I’m there. Right now I think I see Tina in need of assistance. That rather portly old gentleman has been chewing her ear off for the past five minutes about something I can tell from here is deadly dull, and she’s starting to show signs of imminent danger.”  
  
“What?” asks Newt, alarmed.

“Now, don’t you worry, my friend. I shall go and rescue him before she bludgeons him under the nearest table to get away. No, no, Percival, don’t you dare get up. You _stay here_ and take care of Newt. Do excuse me, gentlemen.”

They watch as Ibrahim departs, makes his way back into the ballroom, and then deftly inserts himself into the conversation between Tina and the old man. The pair of them seem to strike up a conversation immediately, and Tina slips away into the crowd.

With a sigh, Newt sits down next to Percival and stretches out his long legs. “I’m exhausted,” he admits, with a quiet laugh.

“The dancing?” Percival asks, glad for an innocent topic of conversation. “I suppose you don’t get to dance much in the field.”  
“No, no...the, the _speaking._ It wears me out, you see.” Newt looks suddenly somewhat bashful, and affixes his attention to the toes of his shiny black shoes. Percival glances sideways at him, but can’t see his eyes beneath the tumble of his forelock. Newt’s shyness is legendary, until he warms to you that is, and Percival is suddenly struck by how far they’ve come since those early days of mid-December. From standoffishness and stammering panic, to hiding away from the crowds together in an out of the way corner. It’s what they seem to do best after all, the two of them, be it before Percival’s sitting room fire, or down in the safety of Newt’s case.

Newt has his arms folded tightly across his chest, his jacket tails tucked neatly beneath his backside to avoid the water. “Are you cold?” Percival murmurs, and this makes Newt look up to meet his eyes.

“Not as such,” Newt says. “After being in there for so long it’s quite nice out here really.”

Behind them one of the fish broaches the surface of the water with a ripple of sound and then dives away again. The light dances across the wavelets and the eyes of the charmed statues in the hedgerows glitter. It’s all very beautiful, but Percival notices none of it. He watches the curve of Newt’s mouth as the man worries his lower lip between his teeth, notes how his gaze seems to drop back to the tip of his shoes. Percival wonders all at once if he just missed a chance, another one. If something had been expected of him. The uncertainty of it all makes his head ache, and he looks away, cursing himself, events, the last year, everything. Nothing is quite right any more.

“Thank you for coming, tonight,” Newt says. “I really do appreciate the moral support.”

He smiles slightly, a quick glance at Percival and then away again.

“You’re more than welcome,” Percival rasps, then has to clear his throat. “Apologies. Dry mouth.”

“Mm,” Newt hums agreeably. Then, after a moment. “Are _you_ cold? You’re not coming down with something, are you?”

 _Too late for that,_ Percival thinks. _Already caught._ “No, I’m fine, just. The heat in there, you know. I prefer it out here.”

Even so, Newt ducks his head to catch his eye, and Percival looks up at him with raised eyebrows. “Hm, yes, well you don’t _look_ feverish.” He leans in close, and Percival can smell the wine on his breath, can feel the heat of him even through his shirt. “You can tell sometimes by how people’s eyes look.”

“Really?” Graves says, and is embarrassed to find the word comes out as a whisper. He finds himself gripped by a desire to close the distance between them, to do something entirely unwise. He meets Newt’s gaze, searching for any kind of reciprocal intent there, and sees nothing but curiosity. The man can be damned hard to read sometimes.

Inside the music suddenly tails off into silence, and a woman’s voice announces the last dance of the evening. Newt leans away, looking back towards the ballroom, and Percival releases a breath he’d not realised he’d been holding on to.

“Ah, last dance,” Newt says. “I don’t suppose you want to?”

Percival blinks, mind blanking. “I, ah, well-”

“Oh, just checking, don’t worry. I haven’t seen you dance yet this evening, and I thought you might want to have a go.”

“Do you?”

“Me? No! I’ve had quite enough of that now, thank you. I’m about ready to drop as it is.”

“Right then,” Percival says, straightening up to cover his confusion. For a second there he’d thought Newt was asking him to dance, damned fool that he is. He wonders what the hell has gotten into him, he’s not usually so awkward. Miserably, he folds his arms across his chest and scowls into the ballroom at the slowly sauntering couples. Beside him he can still feel the warmth emanating from Newt’s body, and the heat of him makes Percival want to reach out.

But he doesn’t. Instead he sits quietly at Newt’s side, watching the last dance go on inside the glittering ballroom, the music spilling out soft and low into the night. Around them, slowly at first, and then in gently spiralling rushes, it once more begins to snow.

  


*

  


Finally, Newt comes to the end of his visiting permit, and it becomes time for him to leave New York. He goes out for drinks the night before with Tina and Queenie, brings Percival and Ibrahim with him, and is torn between guilt and amusement at the look on John Harris’ face when he realises that a night out with the Goldstein sisters means the presence of his two most senior commanding officers as well. Both Percival and Ibrahim slip fluidly into disapproving senior auror mode, much to Tina’s dismay and Newt’s very badly concealed amusement. He knows the pair of them far too well by now to believe a word of their disapproval at all.

They end up at one of the favourite haunts of the city aurors, filled with other people from the office, which gives Harris a chance to slink away. Ibrahim and Percival install themselves at a corner table in the back, and Newt is left to explain his future plans to a room full of eager aurors, amidst demands for postcards to fill the postcard wall, as leaving it to fall into disuse would apparently be some kind of crime against society. It’s a pleasant evening, filled with laughter and friends that Newt hadn’t even realised he had.

The next morning dawns bright and cold, and Newt is in the hallway of Graves’ house, digging through his pockets for one last check of papers, tickets and passport. He hears a quiet footfall behind him and looks up somewhat breathlessly. This last part of preparation for a journey always leaves him unsettled. Percival is standing in the doorway to the dining room, leaning on the door jamb, his arms folded. He looks vaguely amused by Newt’s minor fit of last minute panic. At his feet the Kneazle stares up at Newt with the vibrant emerald eyes peculiar to her breed, and rubs herself against Percival’s calf.

“I told you I left her toys on the kitchen table, didn’t I?” Newt asks.

“You did,” Percival confirms.

“That’s, that’s good. Good. Right, yes. I think you’ll like having her around, Percy. She’ll do so much better here with you than with me. I mean, you’re doing me a favour really. She was a rescue, and she’s never really liked being down in the case. Did I tell you I found her in Paris? She’s technically French, you know.”

“Indeed,” Percival nods. “I can hear it in her miaow.”

Newt stares at him for a moment too long, and it’s quite apparent that he’s considering the technicalities of this with complete seriousness. “Well, of course they do have different inflections to their vocalisations depending on where their mothers raised them, though I’ve never heard of anyone able to tell them apart before.”

“Newt, it was a joke,” Percival says with a smile.

“Oh! Yes, of course it was. Sorry.”

Percival smiles, and looks down. His expression seems pained, even to Newt’s sometimes unskilled eye. “Well, I think that’s me packed and ready to go. I, uhm. Well, I just wanted to say, well. Tha-”

“Look, I’ll accompany you down to the docks,” Percival interrupts him. “I have the morning off, and it’s a pleasant enough day out there.”

Surprised, Newt gapes at him a little. He’d spent an entire hour this morning as he fed the beasts, showered himself and finished his packing, trying to work out what he was going to say to Percival when finally they reached this point. It’s almost impossibly hard to come up with something that will appropriately convey just how much he’s enjoyed the last few weeks, how much he’s appreciated everything Percival has done for him, and how deeply sorry he is that he hasn’t been able to do more in return. He wonders if he should even bring that bit up; the man had been more than clear the other week that he considers the matter closed, but still, _still_ Newt feels like he could somehow have done more.

He looks at Percival now, at _Mr Graves_ , and smiles a little at the thought of how stiff they’d once been with one another. Well, how stiff Newt had been with him. It’s always Newt that’s ill at ease really, such an accusation could hardly be levelled at Percival. “Are you coming to personally kick me out of the country, Director?”

For a second Percival blinks at him, and Newt realises that somehow the man is taking him seriously. Only for a split-second though, and then his natural confidence reasserts itself. “Someone responsible ought to be there,” he drawls in that fine American accent of his.

Newt shrugs. “Well, I suppose I’d be honoured to be thrown out by you. I mean, I’ve been thrown out of several places by far more unscrupulous characters, and sometimes, well, nevermind.”

“You were doing so well, Scamander,” Percival says drily.

Newt shrugs with a helpless smile. Suavity is not his forte.

Still, it seems as though Percival isn’t quite done. An expression that Newt can’t read crosses his face, and he sighs sharply. Pushing off from the door jamb he takes a step into the hallway. “Newt, listen, I-”

The doorbell rings, and both of them jump.

“Oh right, that’ll be Tina and Queenie,” Newt says.

Percival’s expression is uncomprehending. “What?”

“They’re coming to the docks too, to see me off,” he continues, blinking at the sharpness of the other man’s tone.

Percival’s face goes blank, and Newt almost double-takes. That expression is a sure sign of discomfort in him, that much he’s begun to understand, and he tilts his head in query. “Is that..all right?”  
  
“Let me get the door,” Percival says by way of reply, and moves past him. “We couldn’t possibly leave them standing out there on the doorstep.”

Newt steps back to let him pass, surprised by the sudden shift in his mood, and not entirely sure what to make of it. Perhaps he’d wanted to speak privately on the way over, maybe one last mention of the troubles he’s endured, is, more accurately, _still_ enduring. It occurs to Newt that maybe he’d wanted to extract a reaffirmed promise of secrecy regarding the whole matter. Newt glances down at the Kneazle, now winding her way around his feet instead, and makes an unhappy face at her.

His train of thought is brought to an abrupt end by the voices of the Goldstein sisters, as Percival steps back to let them in. Newt looks up and smiles, and the moment is gone.

  


*

 

 

Despite the sun shining in the blue sky, the air is still cold. Percival wraps his scarf another loop around his neck and resists the urge to tuck his chin into its folds. The four of them have elected to take a tram and then walk the rest of the way to the docks, which will cut down on the waiting by the water, but which does mean a trek of quite some distance. Percival’s side is already aching, and amidst the disruption of the morning he’d quite forgotten to take the second of his analgesic potions. He can hardly take it now; even a surreptitious attempt would look quite odd were one of the Goldsteins to catch him at it.

Tina and Queenie have ended up walking this section of the trip one either side of Newt, leaving Percival to trail a few steps behind. He watches the three of them, and takes a brief moment to wonder how he came to this. In a sudden and astonishingly short space of time, his social circle has expanded dramatically from an endless number of acquaintances held at professional arm’s length and one damnable Englishman that’s closer to him than his own kin, to these two women slowly working their way inexorably beneath his defenses, and this other Englishman who has simply beaten down the door and taken up residence. He wonders briefly if he has a peculiar thing for the English, and then somewhat concerned at what that says about him, pushes the thought aside.

For all that he’s started to appreciate the potential company of the Goldstein sisters - having female friends to accompany of an evening is a pleasure he’s found he’d not realised he was missing - he really could have done without the pair of them tagging along this morning. Of course, that’s hardly fair he acknowledges. They were Newt’s friends long before Percival had come onto the scene. Even so, he’d hoped to have some time alone with Newt to speak frankly with the man. Ridiculous really, he admits to himself. There’d been plenty enough time over the last few weeks to speak plainly. And yet, here they are.

It’s close to midday when they finally reach the docks. Newt’s ship will depart at one and boarding closes at twenty past the hour. There is precious little time left to them, and Percival can feel his stomach churning uncomfortably. He’s at a loss for what to do. The four of them have spent the last few hours wandering the city, enjoying mid-morning coffee and cake, and letting Newt take in the sights one last time. Percival had had so many things to say to him, some of them reasonable, most of them foolish. He knows himself well enough to be certain that few of them would have left his lips. Perhaps this way is for the best.

Still, when they end up at the furthest point they can go with him, the boarding ramp but a stone’s throw away, it’s Queenie that draws Tina aside. They have both already thrown their arms around Newt’s neck in farewell, even Tina, albeit with somewhat more reserve than her sister. There’s an awful lot of things left unsaid between her and Newt, but Percival, curious, skimming his senses just lightly along the very edge of her awareness, can only feel something akin to nostalgia there. Queenie gives him a look that’s half caution, half knowing smile, and for a second he tightens his own mental defences against her. But no, she’s simply Queenie, perceptive even when she can’t pluck a person’s thoughts from the air.

“Take care, Newt,” Tina says. “Visit, won’t you?”

“And write us, honey,” Queenie adds.

And then they are gone, off into the crowds along the docks, and it’s just Newt and Percival in the bright winter sunshine. Newt ducks his head, and then tilts his head to look at him, and in the light his eyes are very green. A quick smile flickers across his lips and then is gone, and suddenly they’re back in time six weeks to a man full of uncertainty. Percival can feel the chasm of their differences beginning to yawn between them, and simply doesn’t know how to stop it. A fierce frustration begins to grow in him - this is not how it ought to end.

“I wanted to say, earlier on, that I’m sorry, Percival. No, please just listen,” Newt says, shaking his head when Graves makes a motion to speak. “I wish I could have helped you more, it’s why I came over here. Of course I didn’t realise it was to help you in particular, not at first. And when I did, I just, I wish I could have done better. Done more, you understand?”

Percival closes his mouth against the emotion that tightens his chest, and dips his chin, not trusting himself to speak. Newt is hesitant, a little uncertain of how his words will be received, and he hates that, cannot abide it that a person he considers a friend should look at him in this way. Not as though he might break, not even that, but as though he might rebuff their concern. Percival is so damned tired of people who should have known better, _done_ better, looking at him with guilt, that to see the one person who did know better, who _does_ matter, look at him with such gentle caution for his feelings, well, it makes his bones ache with the exhaustion of it all.  

Newt seems to wince slightly, then that crooked half-smile returns, and he shrugs, just a little. “And thank you again for taking Misty on. A Kneazle makes a wonderful companion.” He glances at Percival for a moment, and the look is measuring. For a second it seems as though he might not continue, but then he appears to gather his resolve. Carefully, and very softly, he says, “And if you ever find yourself not quite able to recall whereabouts you are, well, Kneazles are very special. She’ll always be able to lead you home again.”

Percival thinks of that night in the dark and the cold when the streets of his beloved city had been as alien to him as those of any distant land. To have known the way home then would have been a blessing. He straightens, shifts, and as he does so his wound flares pain up his flank, hot and sharp like a knife drawn up through the muscles and cruelly twisted. A second of white-bright agony and then it subsides, just like it always will, there for only a moment, but never truly gone. Is this going to be it, he thinks, for the rest of his life? The thought of it is unbearable, intolerable when placed side-by-side with Newt’s future absence.

He thinks of the Phoenix, of the silver scars that lace its body and the life that has returned to its eyes, of what he’ll be losing when Newt is gone, and he cannot stand it. He feels a despair rise up in him, shaking his grip on everything he holds certain, and something in him shifts and, finally, gives in.

Newt risks another glance up, still uncertain of how his words have been received, and Percival takes a step forward, places a light palm on the man’s shoulder and leans in. He means to kiss his cheek, a small thing, the tiniest indication of the thoughts running through his head, but Newt raises his chin and Percival thinks, _damn it, damn me,_ and presses his lips once, softly against Newt’s own.

Percival Graves is not a shy man, but when he pulls back to confirm that he’s not overstepped his bounds, there’s a tension in him that’s less the exhilaration of a first kiss, and more the fear that he might have offended. Newt looks back at him in honest surprise, and Percival waits for the emotion to fade into something more substantial than shock. He’d take refusal, and hope for a lack of outrage, but all he sees is startled blinking. No disgust, and no anger. Instead there’s a curiosity that’s entirely Newt, and a spark of genuine interest that makes Percival’s breath stutter in his chest. Newt’s eyes flick away from his, down to his mouth, then back up, and suddenly Percival is confidant that he has not made a mistake. He leans in again, raising his hand to cup Newt’s cheek, and kisses him.

It takes but a moment for Newt to return the kiss. He tilts his head against Percival’s palm, and it’s him that presses in now, leaning forward into his touch. Percival lets his hand slide around to the back of Newt’s neck, holding him gently in place, and deepens the kiss until their breath becomes short, and the kiss becomes far too much for a public place. He feels Newt’s free hand come up to press into the back of his shoulders, a reaction to the gentle press of Percival’s fingers against his hip. At Newt’s side his case hangs forgotten in his grasp.

When they pull apart, Percival lets his palm rest against Newt’s jaw, the pad of his thumb gently stroking the curve of his cheek. His eyes are a brilliant green in the sunlight, his skin flushed beneath Percival’s palm. He can see emotions and thoughts welling up in the man’s eyes, and he thinks for a second he might be about to say something. But he doesn’t, and Percival smiles, just slightly. Speechless for once, and not out of shyness, he thinks.

“Goodbye for now, Mr Scamander,” he says softly, and congratulates himself that his voice doesn’t shake. He steps back, and straightens, and doesn’t feel the pain. Newt is staring at him, slightly open-mouthed, his eyes somewhat glassy with heat. Then he closes his mouth with an almost audible snap, shaking his head slightly.

“I..Mr-...Percival. Yes...goodbye,” Newt replies dazedly, and Percival almost feels bad. But not more than almost, because the flush to Newt’s skin and the breathless smile on his lips is making his cold old heart sing with something irrepressibly joyful, and that is a feeling he hasn’t had in far too long.

A shrill whistle breaks through the haze of their fascination with one another, and a man shouts the last call for boarding. Newt blinks and looks around, and Percival nods towards the gangplank, one eyebrow raised. For now there is nothing more to be said. Newt hesitates, looks as though he might try anyway, then gives Percival a strange, awkward, half-bow that’s entirely him, almost stumbling as he turns away. Partway to the gangplank he pauses to look back, finding Percival’s dark eyes with his own, and the moment stretches. Then, with the slightest of nods, and a smile only someone that knew him very well might catch, he turns and heads up the gangplank.

Percival Graves is left alone on the dock, his hands in the pockets of his long, black overcoat, his eyes on the great white liner sitting low in the water. For a moment he continues to watch, and then the crowd shifts, people running to catch the last gangplank, moving between him and the edge of the dock, and when they are gone so too is he.

  


*

  


The house is quiet save for the ticking of the clock in the hall and the skitter of the Kneazle’s claws on the tiles as she comes running to greet him. Percival waves his coat to its place on the rack, clicks his tongue at the Kneazle and leads her into the kitchen to be fed. He leaves her with her face pressed into a boil of choice meat cuts, charms a pot of yesterday’s soup to reheat itself on the stove, and makes his way through to the sitting room to open his personal mail.

A snap of his fingers lights the fire, and he settles himself at the desk in the corner to open the letters he’d left behind this morning. By rights he ought to have opened them all by nine o’clock, and normally he would have done, but in the upheaval of Newt’s departure he’d let the task slide, too caught up in his own self-pity to function like an adult. His mouth twists in a wry smile at his own fickle emotions - his current buzz of pleased contentment is a far cry from the maudlin gloom with which he had risen this morning. He can still feel the warmth of Newt’s cheek beneath his palm, and taste the heat of the man’s mouth on his tongue. A flicker of memory presents itself in his mind’s eye and he can feel again the way Newt had pressed in towards him, an enthusiasm and desire to his kiss that Percival simply hadn’t expected. The memory of it makes his fingers go still on the edges of one letter, his eyes completely blind to the words on the page. Percival feels his lips pulling into a fool’s smile and knows then and there that he is completely beyond hope and also that he simply doesn’t care.

Later, the Kneazle comes to join him, meal finished, as he sorts through his mail, drinking soup with one hand. There’s letters from his bank detailing his investments, communications from various alumni clubs he doesn’t bother with and never will, and a letter from his sister that he sets aside to look at once he’s settled before the fire. The last envelope makes him blink at the writing, and it takes him a moment to remember what it is. He runs a thumb over Newt’s looping scrawl, and then slides open the flap to pull out the Kneazle’s permit.  

 

_“Look after her, and she’ll look after you._

_~ N.S.”_

 

Percival smiles, and reaches down to scratch the Kneazle’s ear. Against a backdrop of her satisfied purring, he sets the permit neatly to one side and, contented in a way that he hasn’t been for a very long time, sets about rebuilding his life.

  


*

  


Far out in the bay, with the wind whipping chill through his hair, and the moon turning the ocean to silver, Newt Scamander touches his fingertips to his lips and smiles. Night has turned the cold sea air to ice, but he doesn’t feel the bite of it. There’s a restless, tumbling energy in his limbs, and his heart is beating wild and fast, pleased simply to be alive. In the far distance the lights of New York fade slowly out of sight, eaten up by the miles and the crests of the waves. He knows it won’t be the last time he sees them, led back here by something else, something that feels a lot like home.

After a minute he pulls his coat tight around his neck, and, lifting his case, goes back below deck to tend to his beasts.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly, it's not over. :] I do have a follow-on fic roughly sketched out that will pick up where this one ends and which will deal with the consequences of all the games the characters have been playing - with the system and with each other. It's probably going to be called "Percival Graves: Auror for Hire" because I can't find anything with that title yet and the thought of it makes me laugh. No idea if I'll post it separately or tag it on the end of this one. There probably will be a couple of timestamp ficlets which I'll add on the end of this from time to time for scenes that I wanted to write but couldn't make fit. 
> 
> However, I'm going to take a break from this fic's universe now, end of season if you like, and go write my animagus!Percival fic which promises to be a hell of a lot lighter in tone than this one. _Probably._
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and comments, and everyone who came to froth on Tumblr, I tell you quite honestly your enthusiasm was the reason this fic was finished. Thank you. :] 
> 
> If Tumblr's your thing, I'm over there as @absolutelynogravitaswhatsoever 
> 
>  
> 
> [Pictures of the Astor as it once was.](https://ny.curbed.com/2013/6/26/10227158/remembering-nycs-grandest-forgotten-hotels-in-photos)  
> [Newt’s shed ambience](https://youtu.be/fCTdAXZGW18) \- an hour long ambience that an exhausted Percival might have fallen asleep to.


End file.
